


Towards You

by tekowrites



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Adopted, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bullying, Flirting, Friendship, Girlfriend, Homophobia, Human Clark Kent, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Misunderstandings, Rape/Non-con Elements, Thomas and Martha Wayne are Alive, Tutoring, Violence, football player Bruce, highschool, no powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 04:03:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17542313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tekowrites/pseuds/tekowrites
Summary: AU where Clark is a new transfer student at an elite high school, and he encounters Bruce Wayne. Clark doesn't fit in, not anywhere it seems, and his crush on the star of the football team? Only serves to shows how much. Jealous girlfriends, misunderstandings, hormones and lurking trouble are just some of the challenges he's going to face.





	Towards You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GinAkuma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinAkuma/gifts).



> Heed the warnings, avoid this fic if the themes upset or affect you in anyway. Written for GinAkuma for their prompt. Any mistakes are my own, checked but not beta-read. 
> 
> Otherwise, please enjoy <3

When his parents first mentioned the school, he’d said no. Because, who wouldn’t stand out with a school that had a logo of a bat? The nocturnal, fruit eating type. Though, baseball bats weren’t exactly a reassuring alternate logo or mascot either.

The fact that the school had its fair share of posh, trust fund, silver spoon spawns, was the only selling point. Not that he was remotely the type, but it meant that the school was desperate to fill scholarships for the underprivileged, just so the media wouldn’t call them elitists. If you also happen to be an underprivileged alien -well to the native area, not like, from outer space or something ridiculous like that- you were even more in demand. Add the adopted orphan schtick and you’ve got yourself a true tear-jerker.

Not that he’d wanted to, mind you, to tell the school he was an orphan adopted into a nice loving elderly family. But when the only thing special about you was that you were adopted, parents unknown but presumed dead, well, he was always told to use what he had, so there.

So he used the rusty old bike to get to the school, kicking up dirt and flecks of muddy water onto already struggling jeans, and made the worst impression when he arrived late.

He’s not so sure he imagined the wrinkled noses, foreheads and pinched mouths when he got in. Though he had to rub eyes hidden behind thick rimmed frames and even thicker lenses, to believe the sight of the classroom.

He was half sure he’d stumbled into a lounge, and not a damn classroom, because no matter how many times he blinked, the leather couches in the back didn’t disappear, neither did the T.V on mute, showing the morning news report, or the three sets of Macs next to a printer each, or the damn mini fridge.

“Mr. Kent.”

He looked back at the…instructor? Because no highschool teacher in the world would come to school in a three piece suit and a watch so shiny it might as well have ‘steal me’ written all over it.  
Someone coughed in a corner. He wasn’t sure if they’d coughed ‘loser’, it was that good. Maybe schools like these also taught you how to look down your nose at someone, discreetly, and get away with it. 

“Mr. Kent.”

The irritated voice finally registered through the haze of utter disbelief, as well as the snickering of countless princesses. Because honestly, there were enough jewels on their persons to qualify for royalty.

“Sorry for being late, sir.”

His teacher harrumphed. Honest to God.

“Ladies, gentlemen, our newest school acquisition. Mr. Clark Kent. We’ve left you a seat in the back, please don’t dawdle any further at the entrance and take your marked place.”

Woah, where’d they find that guy? Looking back at the man, he wondered if he’d also been instructed in the art of making the scholarship students feel like owned cattle. Acquisition indeed.

Once he sat down, he discovered one more slight against his person. The gigantic bulk of someone who could squish him like a fly if he so much as breathed deeper.

But then Bulk turned towards him and well..To say everything magically got better and the world suddenly took on this pink hue to it, birds started to sing and butterflies flapped their tiny wings, wouldn’t be exactly untrue.

Because there, was a prime example of chiseled wet dreams coming to life and casting smoldering dark gazes that promised tingling things in the nights.

A second too late he realized the smoldering look wasn’t pleasure about to commence, but pain about to be inflected if he didn’t take the handout immediately. 

“S-sorry.”

Bulk just looked at him, then quirked an eyebrow and turned to face the front of the class. And if Clark’s heart also jumped with that tiny eyebrow twitch? Well, no one would ever find out would they?

By lunch, the weirdness intensified. There was an actual restaurant on grounds where students were instructing the waiters with the temperature of their steaks. There were no lunch ladies in attendance, and the buffet style set-up had heaps of food, the names of which he’d never heard of.

It was immediately clear to him that the brown bag clutched in his hands wouldn’t fit anywhere in this scenario, and to even attempt to open it in attendance would be to invite disaster upon himself for the rest of his school life. A year though it might be.

He went out through the same door he came in from, and tried to find a clear corner where he could pretend for a minute that he was in a normal school, surrounded my mortals who actually lived on this realm, and not some secret society building an army of wealthy heirs.

The floor was as cool as it was shiny, and for a minute, he wondered how much the school spent in budget on waxing and cleaning them. You could probably eat right off the floor. Not an exaggeration because he could have sworn everyone was wearing squeaky clean white tennis shoes, or similar in color-tone, and everyone sparkled.

He unpacked his lunch, musing, and almost chomped through the sandwich and attached paper.  
He smiled at the ridiculous note he found, telling him to make an effort, make friends. Sure, right.

He was still caught up in chewing his first bite, when he heard it.

“Disgusting.”

He looked up at the little pack of G.I. Joes staring down at him. He took another bite, and reached into his bag for a can of soda.

“Figures he’s eating on the floor like an animal.”

He ignored them. Took one more bite. Even though it started to feel like he was chewing through cardboard.

But no panic attack yet, that was good. That was great actually.

“Hey! We’re talking to you!”

The unexpected voice that answered, was both unwelcome, and stomach-knotting-ly hot.

“Are you?”

He didn’t look up, but it sure as hell felt like the air had changed around him. A dozen responses flashed through his mind, none effective, because pissing off someone who might be trying to stick up to you was a bad idea. More so when it was Bulky, his classmate.

“Hey, we were just..uh trying to get to know the guy.”

“Right. Well, until further notice ‘the guy’ has been put under my responsibility. So, your welcome committee is no longer ‘welcome’. Scram.”

“Uh, yeah sure Bruce. Good game last week huh? Thanks for..uh taking him off our hands.”

He’d never seen elephants stomp so quick, but he was glad to see the back of them. His hand was shaking though, part rage, part relief, and all he could do was try to finish the rest of the sandwich. Try to act unaffected.

So, when Bulky, a.k.a Bruce, plopped next to him on the floor, he nearly flew up into the ceiling.

“You’re on the floor.”

“You look comfortable enough Kent, I figured I’d give it a try.”

“Clark. Well, how do you like it?”

“Hard.”

He choked.

He looked at Bruce and nearly choked again, because the expression on his face was serious as sin.

“You realize there are far more comfortable things to sit on all around the school, don’t you?”

Heavens, the dude was going to give him a nose bleed, or a heart attack, or both if he kept saying things like that.

“No one asked you to try the floor Bruce.”

“Wayne. It’s Wayne to you.”

Oh. Somehow, he hadn’t realized how far his stomach could drop and the sensation made him queasy.

“Get up Clark. I wasn’t kidding about being responsible for you.”

And didn’t that tacked on glare at the end just make him even more ill.

***  
He expected to be led to the gym, get turned into a punching bag, and then dropped out of the school gates in a black body bag.

What happened could be considered worse. He was taken around the school in a tour of horror, whereby everybody they met on the way either shook hands nervously with him while looking at Bruce like he was about to shove glass shard bits into their eyes, or barely glanced their way. He was too afraid to protest when Bruce took him to the toilets.

But they only stayed in long enough to confirm that Bruce had his own toilet, key card activated, and that Clark was expected to use the urinals like the common dog he was. Well, that’s what is sounded like anyway when Bruce explained all the other toilets were already reserved and the waiting list for a toilet was two years long so, tough luck.

He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed when the clinic turned out to be just a small room with a single sick bed, and minimal medical supplies. He was expecting a full on operation room.

Thankfully by that time, lunch break was over, and they were back to the classroom. Problem was, he was yet to utter another peep in front of Bruce, and the silent giant kept, well, silent.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t as tall as Bruce -maybe slightly taller even?- , but he’d spent a childhood on a rural farm in the middle of nowhere and all the farm had going for it, was a corn field the size of a state. All you had to look forward to were aliens suddenly dropping out of the sky and leaving you with crop circles. Not that that’d ever happened in his boring ass life.

The rest of the day progressed without incident, unless you considered being shadowed by the school’s obvious golden boy the height of incident. People gave him a wide breadth, mostly whispering as he passed them by. For some disconcerting reason, there was an off-tune hum following as well. It took him a while to realize it was Bruce trying to sing. Once he did though, it became comforting, realizing even Bruce Golden Child Wayne couldn’t sing for shit. It sorta made him human.

The effect was immediately ruined by the arrival of a limo, and a well-dressed silver -barely haired- man opened the passenger door and exclaimed, “hello young Master Bruce, will your classmate be joining you?”

A freakin’ butler. _A butler_. Also, seriously Master Bruce?

Thankfully, whatever signal Bruce conveyed to the _butler_ seemed to have be in the negative. Because regardless of how hot Bruce was, and he was, immensely so, Clark would rather gauge his own eyes out than suffer in the silence of his looks all the way to, wherever it is young masters went and called a home.

He scowled though, just to show he wasn’t expecting any charity. “I have my own ride back home.”

The eyebrow went up again. Just like a cat, Clark wanted to jump at the man and swipe it, consequences be damned. But Bruce just shuffled inside the car and left the butler with the thin, unfashionable mustache to close the door. He watched just long enough to make sure Bruce wasn’t going to continue to follow him that day, before heading to where he’d locked his bike.

His brave words haunted him when he realized, rich kids or not, some asshole had stolen it. He stared dumbfoundedly at the place he’d last left it, and couldn’t summon up any other reaction other than exasperation.

He told himself to think. If he were a rich asshole who’d seen a shabby -but well loved- bike, and wanted to try their hands on some criminal activity, what would he do with his shabby -but still usable- ride? No moron on the face of the planet would buy it.

It came to him easy as pie. Well, no, not really, pie was a month long grovel on his knees and two months of chores, but that’s how the expression went anyway.

He found it in the nearest ditch, in the opposite direction of the school. Someone had used the flacking seat leather as an ashtray, but otherwise it still looked the same. Like absolute shit.

The backpack took the place of the seat, and he cycled home wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into.  
***  
Dinner was a subdued affair. Mainly because he refused to elaborate on his first day at the new school, and because the bike seat was mysteriously sporting patches.

He dragged his back pack and went outside once the dishes were stacked and the trash bag tied and shoved in the proper receptible. It was so quiet, nothing but the rustling of grass, dead stalks crunching underfoot as the last of the harvested crops yielded to the weather change. Perfect weather to bust out homework, and give into wishful thinking.

He cleared math first. Somehow, he’d inherited decent enough brains not to burden his parents with questions, study sessions, or tutors. He wasn’t exceptionally gifted or anything, but stuff sorta made sense to him. There was always a thread of reason that started to unravel if he thought about it, or looked at his tasks a certain way.

He wished life was as easy to figure out as that. His downfall had always been his social awkwardness. His last school, in the rural of nowhere had been okay enough, until he’d let slip the one thing he shouldn’t have. It wasn’t like he was flaunting it in anyone’s face, but all the same, it seemed like a rainbow lit up wherever he went, announcing him.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake in this school. Which would probably work, since for all intents and purposes it seemed like nobody would ever have cause to talk to him. Besides, how hard could it be to hold off for one more year? He’d managed to with the exception of the last year being marred with the stain of gossip.

He sighed, packed everything up and went back inside. He’d worry about all of it tomorrow as well, so no sense losing sleep on it then.  
***  
Things finally started making sense a week in.

What he’d figured was the classroom lounge, was really the play area. The gigantic overprivileged babies could only take so much pre-assigned material. Some had had it drilled into their heads by private schooling or tutoring, while others were so actually dumb, they couldn’t be bothered with the headache of concentration.

He couldn’t figure out which Bruce was, but he figured since the guy spent at least 80 percent of the time on the computers in the back, that he was a solitaire expert.

Another thing made clear to him was that his novelty as the new dirt poor student had worn off. The bullying had evaporated into thin air, with the exception of the perpetual sneer and sniff. He figured he’d save the Botox joke for his graduation speech.

He’d also learned to take his brown lunch bag and quickly make way to his bike. While he knew he wasn’t a match for anyone looking to deface it again, at least he’d see the asshole who’d done it. But the bike remained unscathed.

In the back of his mind, he did wonder whether this was Bruce’s influence, but he quickly curbed that line of thought.  
They’d barely exchanged more than two words since the first day, and he was fine with that.

Except when he wasn’t. Because gosh darn it he had a crush on Bruce Wayne, the size of Gotham City. And if he was already waking up between twisted sheets and damp, sweat soaked clothes, well…at least he’d always done his own laundry.

He shoved the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and tried hard to think about medieval torture devices.

The whole effect was ruined when someone shoved him.

He barely managed to save himself from getting a mouth full of grass, when he was yanked back again. His eyes met the shifty eyes of the one person he was trying not to think about. He pulled his arm back, indigently shouting, “what’s the big idea!”

“Overestimated your body mass.”

He glared, “you mean you underestimated your own strength.”

“That’s what I said.”

He wondered how feasible it was to deck Bruce without busting his knuckles in the process. “I’m waiting.”

“For who?”

Oh, _oh_. Well two could play at that game. “For you to apologize. You dickhead.”

There was just the tiniest of twitches on Bruce’s face, but he couldn’t see where. Dude had a face made of marble. Pretty, but inexpressive as ice.

He got a snort. It was better than a punch in the face, but it was no apology.

“I heard you’re taking the creative writing class.”

“Apologize.”

“And, I heard someone said you were okay at it.”

“Fuck you, I’m great at it. And I’m still waiting on you to apologize.”

He scoffed. 

Honestly, did the whole school take a pre-requisite on non-verbal putdown communication?

“I’m sorry you got offended.”

Ha! “I’m sorry too. That your emotional frigidity is probably costing you a class. Art elective by any chance? Forced to take one because you haven’t yet? Desperate to maintain a passable GPA?”

And finally, a crack in the façade. Bingo, on all accounts.

“Okay. Sorry.”

“Thanks man, apology accepted. So, what can I do you for?”

“What.”

Fuck. _Fuck_. “You heard me, what can I do for you?”

Bruce wasn’t uncertain, or he was and his poker face was more practical practice and less solitaire on the computer.

He shoved a paper in Clark’s face, which he instantly recognized as their first assignment. The big ass D on the top of the paper told him pretty much the whole story. But still, he was a masochist at heart, evidence by his death wish by means of Bruce’s arms as they crushed his windpipe for daring to call him names. But since that hadn’t happen, he was safe. Then again, guys like Bruce probably thought that was a silent strength or something, being emotionally frigid.

The writing wasn’t bad. Much. It wasn’t grammatically wrong or anything, it was just, stale. It read like a manual. A well written, even overwritten manual, but that was it. In the first five sentences you knew exactly what was going to happen by the end of the page. Bruce probably wrote great essays, he was just shit at writing none essays. Clark was almost gleeful.

“I’m surprised you had the balls to submit this as a creative writing piece.”

“I’ve had friends read it, they all agreed it was good. I don’t understand how this merits a fail.”

He had to check twice that Bruce was serious, before he gave him a look of disbelief. “The only friends you have are bimbos who can’t read, and meat-heads who won’t. So really the only feedback you got, was the collective that none of them can read for shit.”

This time, he did catch the twitch. In the temple. He was probably 40 seconds away from being wrapped around the bike rail if he didn’t choose his next words carefully.

“But it’s nothing you can’t fix.”

“How’re you going to do that.”

“Nice try big guy. _You’re_ going to fix it. I’ll help, if the incentive’s right.”

“How about a new bike.”

He was so, so tempted. To do which he wasn’t sure, either kick Bruce in the balls, or kiss the thin line of his lips as they pursed in….disapproval?

“How about, you have to spend lunch break with me. Everyday, until the end of the class.”

“I have football practice.”

“Not all the time you don’t.” And yeah it was a total coincidence he knew that, and that’d he’d even seen the football practice schedule and somehow managed to memorize it.

“No. Pick something else.”

“No. Think about it, when am I exactly going to help you work on the assignments? We have class during the day, you have practice before, during or after classes. And I have to be home after classes.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Cool. Think of something. Until then though, here’s your assignment.”

Bruce looked at him like he’d grown two heads. Which he might have. It felt like he’d been suddenly possessed by the devil himself. What the hell was he doing, bargaining, and even volunteering to get more heartache?

“Why are you giving it back?”

“Because we haven’t agreed on anything. You weren’t expecting me to work on it while you thought of an alternative payment, were you?”

Oh the lovely new range of emotions all across Bruce’s face. Namely his grimace. “Yeah, didn’t think so. I’ve spent my entire life bargaining with old people, you can’t pull the wool over my eyes young master.”

Right then, when Bruce’s mouth made that final, final twitch, holding back a laugh, Clark knew he’d lost the bargain already.  
***  
First problem they faced was that Clark refused to eat in the dining hall. Though Bruce’s face barely showed it, his voice was definitely irritable when he asked, “why?”

Clark shrugged. Because honestly, he didn’t want to come off as more of a loser than Bruce already thought. In fact, if he hadn’t read the actual writing sample, he’d be tempted to think Bruce was humoring him entirely.

Bruce Wayne was on whole other level of rich, that he could afford to hire their current teacher to give him private creative writing lessons, specifically based on their future assignments. He guessed Wayne senior would have to know about it then, so Bruce wasn’t entertaining the idea.

That took them right back to the problem of lunch.

“You can grab something and then meet me out back next to the bike rails.”

“You’re not seriously suggesting I take my plate and utensils outside.”

Had the guy never heard of a barbeque?

“I’m sure if _you_ ask, the staff could make a take-out box or something?”

He got a look. Then Bruce sighed and went back inside.

Clark figured he wouldn’t stick around for more bitchy exclamations on the proper way to have lunch at school, and that Bruce could manage all by himself.

He tried not to look at the time and surrender to the thought that Bruce had ditched him. It felt like he’d sabotaged himself by sheer stubbornness. He’d won the first battle, why couldn’t he have just said yes and shut up? So what if someone had ransacked his bike again, or they made more disgusted faces at his lunch bag. He crushed the rest of the empty paper bag in his hands and hoped it would make him feel better.

Minutes ticked by, and then he spotted someone walking towards him. Shock was quickly replaced by amusement and hilarity when he realized it was the butler.

The butler, carrying a basket, and followed by a sullen Bruce with a pinched face.

Quick as a ninja, he set out a selection of dishes, drinks, arranged them on a checkered blanket and left.  
It was like they were on a date.

He decided not to share that with Bruce, just in case he exploded. What he did say instead was, “get on with it, we have work to do.”

He finished his own lunch, flecking stray crumbs away from his clothes, and pulling out the notebook he brought. He glanced at Bruce, then quickly glanced away because romance novels and movies were wrong, there’s absolutely nothing sexy about seeing someone demolish a meal, no matter how refined they were.

Taking the folded paper, he started reading the passages again, making notes, and thinking how he’d explain what needed to be changed. He couldn’t suggest his own ideas, as that wouldn’t help Bruce tackle the next assignment, so he’d come up with ways to tackle the biggest issues.

And once Bruce was done shoveling food -he reminded himself that Bruce was a still growing giant and there weren’t any other methods to maintain his bulk- he get right to the point.

“I have homework for you.”

He tried not to be discouraged by Bruce’s grim look, and stood his ground. “We’ll do them each separately, and then compare products. Once that’s done, you’ll have something to try at home and I’ll check it tomorrow.”

The first thing he handed over, was a request list for adjectives.

It was his turn to be grim when he looked at the 20 words Bruce wrote. “Are you secretly goth? Everything in this list is either dark or death related. Swear to God it’s like you live in a cave or something.”

The next part wasn’t better by any stretch of the imagination. The one line happy story prompt might as well have been German, for all the joy it contained. None.

“I don’t see how this is helping. I don’t see how the fact you look constipated every time you read what I write, is helping either.”

Clark hastened to reassure him, “it is helping! See, now I know that you’re not a romantic, you’re pretty straight-laced and well, your sense of humor is an acquired taste.”

He saw Bruce glancing at his watch, and pulled out the last task. “Read this, and then write me a review telling me why you hate it.”

“I don’t know that I’ll hate it.”

At that, Clark grinned. “Trust me, you will. But anyways, if you somehow, miraculously don’t hate it, make me believe you do anyways.”

The fact he got an eyebrow to rise on Bruce’s face, he took as success. His own followed shortly after when the butler showed up to pack the picnic away.

***  
The next day, a table and chairs had magically appeared next to the bike rails, and Bruce was carrying what looked like a fancy-shmancy lunch box. He decided not to question the fact he wouldn’t need to scrub grass stains off his jeans seat anymore.

He figured they’d do the eating thing first, and then he’d see how Bruce fared with his homework, when Bruce surprised him.

“I loved it,” and he was almost fooled because there was the first smile he’d ever seen on Bruce’s face. Thin though it was.

“Did you now? _Really_?”

Then all pretense dropped and Bruce glared at him, “of course not.”

He grinned, manically too, because he’d given Bruce a column someone wrote about Wayne Enterprises bashing them to hell and back.

“It wasn’t funny.”

He still couldn’t stop smiling, “it wasn’t meant to be. And before you clobber me with your iron fist, there’s a perfectly good explanation for why I gave that to you.”

Bruce grunted, which was sort of cute, because well, it was a reflection of a human emotion.

“See, usually, even people who don’t write much, inject the most emotion when they write complaints. But, I don’t figure you for the type to complain, because you have this thing where if you don’t like something, or it didn’t work out, you’d just, ignore it? So I thought, what was the best way to pull emotion out of you?”

Which had worked because, Bruce seemed like he held a lot of pride in both the name of and the business of Wayne Enterprises, so it was bound to get a rise out of him. Bruce’s face didn’t show any surprise, but the clenching muscles of his jaw had relaxed, so that was a good sign.

“So let’s have it, how much did you hate it?”

“Immensely.” 

Reading what Bruce had written, oh boy, immensely couldn’t begin to cover it. He almost snorted at the legal angle Bruce had thrown in. However, it still lacked a little, verve of sorts.

“Don’t be such a tidy writer. Be a rebel, a bad boy. Dare to write a curse word.”

Smoldering eyes cast steel daggers towards him, and he cheered. “That! _Exactly_ that! Stop communicating how much you’d like to spear me with your eyes and more with your words.”

“I don’t want to spear you, don’t be ridiculous.” Which seemed untrue, unless Bruce meant ‘not with my meaty length anyway’ but whatever, it was still a kind of progress.

“This is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship!” He was mostly being patronizing and annoying on purpose, but he might have been hopeful as well.

Bruce just shook his head, sighed the sigh of the forever suffering, and unpacked his lunch to eat. Clark tried not to gape at the amount of food revealed in front of him, and smiled in satisfaction at the small paper in his hand. He wrote D+ and drew a smiley face on it as well, just to be a shit.  
***  
That’s how it went for the next two weeks. Bruce attempting to and failing to meet Clark’s expectations. They’d banter, they’d even glare at each other, but they always, always had lunch last. Bruce tried to beg off for different reasons, and Clark was right there to counter them.

“I can just email you.”

“I don’t have access to email.”

He’d gotten an incredulous look, but Clark wouldn’t back down.

“I can have Alfred deliver it.”

“No. You’re not sending that man on a ridiculous errand just because you’re too scared to listen to my opinions on your writing, face to face.”

Bruce scoffed. “Who’s scared of who you little….”

“Little what?” And that was part of it too, he’d challenged Bruce to curse, either in writing or somewhere. It had failed spectacularly when Bruce had started to claim that technically, shitake did in fact meet the assignment, because it had ‘shit’ in the spelling.

“Little four eyes.”

Clark swooned. “Oh, so offended, so _wounded_. Try again.”

Bruce had feigned a lunge at him and he’d almost fallen flat on his ass, but still, he’d shown up the next day.

And when they’d submitted the next assignment, and Bruce had gotten a much-improved C+, he’d been rewarded with his first real smile from Bruce. It was devastating. It amplified his handsomeness ten-fold and Clark’s mouth had gone dry, trying and failing to say something in congratulations. But all too soon, he’d sobered up and offered a deprecating smile of his own, as he knew what was coming.

“So, I guess this means you don’t need me anymore, ha?”

Bruce looked at him, but didn’t say anything right away. It was nerve wrecking, waiting for him to pull the plug on the only thing that had given him any joy.

Then Bruce broke into a wide smile and Clark knew he’d just been had. He was about to call Bruce a turd when Bruce surprised him with an arm around his shoulders, squeezing him.

“Of course I need you. You said until the end of class, and my grandfather would roll in his grave if I got a C.”

He choked out a “charming,” and resisted the urge to touch the arm keeping his body warm, maybe too warm, and ducked his head to hide an inappropriate blush.

At home, with the lights off, the window open, and pillow bitten between his teeth to muffle his voice, he replayed that scene over, and over again ‘ _of course I need you’_

_‘need you’_

And when the fire in his belly hadn’t cooled down, even in the shower, he slipped soap-slick fingers down his body and ignored how warm his face was against the cold tiles.

***  
His stomach clenched at the sight of Bruce when he saw him next. Mostly because he felt it was written all over his face.

Bruce gave him weird looks throughout the session as well, but didn’t say anything. When he finally opened his mouth to say something, a phone rang. As it was obviously not his, he looked at Bruce to see what he’d do.

To his surprise, Bruce picked it up. He hadn’t before. In fact, in the previous month, it was always on silent. He figured it must be important for him to pick it up, so he strained his ears to try and catch both sides of the conversation. He wished he hadn’t.

“I’ll ask her. I’m sure it’s fine. Yes. Goodbye.”

“Who’re you asking to where?”

Bruce seemed surprised that he was still there, as if the phone call had transported him somewhere else entirely.

“Natalie. My parent’s annual fundraiser.”

“Oh. Natalie last year’s junior prom queen?”

Bruce shrugged. “So, are you guys together?”

“What’s with the 20 questions Clark?”

“Nothing, just getting to know my study buddy Bruce.”

“Wayne.”

“Whatever, Wayne, sure. So, are you?”

“Listen, I have to go. Can we do this another time?”

He wanted to say no. He wanted to rage and tell Bruce, _Bruce_ , to answer his questions and sit his ass down, but he could tell by the way Bruce had already half moved out of his seat that this was non-negotiable.

“Fine.”

When he didn’t make any attempt to pick up his food, Clark thought he’d forgotten. “Hey!”

The irritable “what” he threw back almost made him falter. “You forgot your box.”

The frown lessened a degree or so, but then a huge one bloomed on Clark’s face instead when Bruce said, “you can have it, I’ll pick something up with Nat in the hall.”

Anger from some unknown depth just erupted out of him, “well, thanks for the charity, but I don’t want it, so take it with you anyways.” 

Bruce looked even more irritated now, and mumbled something to the effect of Clark being a pain. But before Clark could give into his rage and say something back, Bruce left, waving his hand behind him.

If his feet weren’t frozen with the dread of realizing Bruce had a girlfriend, he’d have charged after him. Maybe.

Instead, he just sat there, and glared holes at the lunch box Bruce had taken to bringing with him. Tears of anger threatening to fall, and stinging his eyes.

He’d never felt more stupid in his life than at that moment. Just then, he couldn’t stand to be where he was anymore, not at the table, not during lunch hours, and not alone like the first few days.

Before he could change his mind, he unlocked his bike, got on and left.

***  
He regretted the decision the very next day.  
First off, Bruce wasn’t in attendance, and no one was going to tell him why, so he just sat there stewing. The next thing he knew, he’d been called to the school’s advisor, where he was ripped a new one for missing classes. He was reminded once more that he was a scholarship student, and any infractions would result not only in the loss of the scholarship, but the immediate obligation to return all expenses paid on his behalf thus far.

If the advisor’s tone softened any, Clark didn’t notice in the whirlwind of self-loathing that followed in the wake of those words.

He excused himself, apologized and promised to show a more exemplary conduct hence forth to show his worthiness of the scholarship. In these exact words even.

He threw up in the first sink he managed to reach.

His next stop was the teacher’s lounge where he apologized for missing his classes and asked to be shown what pages were covered. He didn’t even pretend to want to ask them to explain anything, as he knew they’d implode on his ass.

Lunch he skipped all together, going over what he missed, writing notes and glaring into empty space, again. Bruce hadn’t shown up to class, so there was no need to go out of his way to see if he’d gone to their lunch spot. His bike would survive one day surely.

It did. He wasn’t sure why that further pissed him off.

Getting home, he made a beeline to his room and holed himself in, until he was called downstairs for dinner and his usual chores. He made practice tasks for Bruce even though he felt like his entire world was coming down around his ears, and even though thinking of Bruce was the last thing he should be doing in the light of current revelations.

When he couldn’t sleep, he pulled out his textbooks and tried to read ahead, anything to keep his brain and hands occupied. It wasn’t until a soft knock and equally soft voice asked him to get some sleep, that he gave up and went to bed.

He was up early, cranky, miserable and sullen. He left the lunch bag on the table and headed out. The guilt ate him up all the way to school, but there was no chance he could cycle back to grab it. Besides, seeing Bruce’s seat empty, again, wasn’t conductive to having an appetite.

That’s when he decided he’d just tell Bruce the next time he saw him. Tell him the deal was off. Get his two bits in before Bruce said it. That settled, he felt more focused and able to prove his worth in class.

This new energy and resolve though only lasted for the duration of the day, and crumbled by the time he was home. Any guilt he might have had about the sandwich also evaporated when he saw that it was his dinner that night. He laughed, gave a wink and ate it without complaint. But all through the meal, all he could do was think about an alternative solution, or a new resolve, or seducing Bruce and saying to hell with everything.  
Which would be ridiculous, as selling the farm in its entirety wouldn’t cover the nasty expenses the school would try to tack on their refund. Which basically meant he couldn’t quit school after doing anything that might blow up his relationship with Bruce. Especially since there wasn’t such a thing anyway. All they had going was a business transaction.

The knock wasn’t so soft this time, and he made a huge show of turning off the light and stomping to his bed to indicate he understood the message.

***  
Bruce was back. It was a shame really, that Clark still hadn’t come to any solution, or sorted through his messy feelings about the guy while he had his absence to think more clearly.

Though that was the least of his worries as he discovered someone perching their butt on his desk. If the classroom hadn’t had the sofa to challenge all sofas, he’d have had no cause to be annoyed, but it did, three of them in fact.

He dropped his bag onto the chair and watched as the curtain of black hair whipped to look at him. He looked straight into her eyes, and tried to convey the message ‘scram’ through his eyes. Hey, if it could work for Bruce, it could work for him.

Not only did it not work, the ear-splitting whine that came out of the girl, was followed closely by, “Bruuuce. Tell him to go away.”

_That’s my line._

He glared at her back instead.

“It’s his desk.”

“But he’s interrupting our moment!”

_As if!_

“It’s time for class Natalie.”

“I told you to call me princess.”

“Yes, princess.”

“And don’t forget to invite me to lunch today.” At that, she finally did look at Clark, and he’d much prefer if she hadn’t. Her entire face turned ugly scrunched up like that, someone ought to tell her.

“Okay.”

“And tell Alfred to pick us up in the limo.”  
A grunt in reply. 

“And I want to come to the football team’s pra-”

He slammed his gigantic textbook on the desk, startling her mid-sentence. She jumped off the desk and rounded on him, face flushed. “Bruce! Tell him to apologize at once!”

“Either ask me yourself, or find your way out of the classroom.”

She looked back and found Bruce just looking between them, not saying anything. She huffed and then tried to look down her nose at him, a feat since she was several inches shorter. “Apologize!”

“No. Go away.”

“Bruce! How can you let him talk to me this way!” 

Bruce just shrugged, adding “I told you it’s his desk.”

Then a nasty look came over her face, and dread filled him. “I get it, scholarship, you probably don’t have a desk at home, huh? But this one is still school property. You don’t get to claim it, even though it is a shabby old thing they can afford to replace. Or give to charity if you ask them nicely.”

He would never hit a girl, but he was seriously tempted then. “You’re still here?”

This time when she turned towards Bruce, he placed a palm on her arm and coaxed her, spitting and pointing at Clark, towards the door, mumbling ‘princess’ all the way.

When Bruce got back, face set and grim, Clark didn’t hold back. “How can you stand that?”

Bruce looked at him coolly, then took his seat and ignored him.

“Fine. Don’t come to me when your writing suffers again.” But there was no response to that.

He couldn’t stand the thought of eating lunch that day either. He cycled passed a group of trees and shredded the soaked bread, food for wild birds, if there were any. The crumbs turned to mulch as he pressed and pulled them apart, trying to forget the sight of the big ass limo that had pulled up, and who Bruce had on his arms as he walked towards it.

He shouldn’t have lost his temper. She was right anyway, just like the desk, Bruce didn’t belong to him or anything. They weren’t even friends.

They weren’t, so why were even the little things they’d shared before, coming back to him? Distorted, seeped into fantastical liberties and mental concoctions. Like the way Bruce would sometimes lean forward over a piece of writing to clarify if Clark meant this word or that, their heads almost brushing, the warm exhales of his breath mingling with Bruce’s.

The fire that built into his fingers each time theirs brushed, pointing at the same thing, at the same time.

One time he was about to fall, only to find an arm wrapped around his middle, fingers splayed and tapping on his belt. The angle that meant he was a little bent forward to Bruce’s rigid stance, and the warm, shivery feeling as Bruce breathed an ‘alright?’ into the shell of his ear.

There were other moments, other accidents, but while he grew flustered, Bruce was the same, unaffected. While he borrowed deeper into a hole of his own making, of his own feelings, Bruce already had someone.  
***  
His fingers made grooves into the paper, he was clutching it so tight. He’d been taken aside after class by the teacher, and asked if he’d like to participate in the State-wide creative writing competition. 

It wasn’t smoke being blown up his ass, they thought he was good for State-level, not just district level. The thought that it might also make a favorable impression on the scholarship board, meant an instant yes had left his mouth before he’d really thought about it.

“You know, not just creative writing. You write with intelligence and precision, and know how to pull someone in. Ever consider a career in journalism?”

He’d had to hold his breath at that, because yes. He’d always thought it was wishful thinking, because, who was going to take care of the farm? But then, that was his chance wasn’t it? His ticket out of there, to explore far beyond his wildest dreams, and far beyond the confines of his small town.

For the first time in weeks, emotions other than despair and heart ache were residing in his chest, fluttering and bubbling away. They hadn’t even fizzled when Bruce gave him that one look laced with confusion, and turned his back to leave. 

It meant that for the first time in two weeks, he ate his lunch, and the birds had one less meal.

***  
Bruce was acting weird.

He’d turn around in the middle of class and look at Clark, blink once or twice, shake his head, and turn back to face the board.

He’d get up at the usual time he did, in the middle of English class, and walk to the computers, but not before stopping a few seconds in front of Clark’s desk, and swiping a finger, or a hand, or just the edge of his palm, against the desk.

Clark ignored him. It was really the best policy given how his feelings fluctuated when it came to Bruce. He didn’t say a word, didn’t engage in the staring match, and kept his face looking ahead.

Bruce started adding a cough to his routine, a few taps on Clark’s desk, pretending to hand something to Clark, or actually handing him something, but waiting until Clark took it, rather than just placing it on his desk.

Clark’s mouth began to twitch, resisting the urge to smile or break the wall he’d built against Bruce.

The next thing he did though, Clark couldn’t keep silent about.

He ran, all the way to the dining hall, caught Bruce looking for his arrival, and dragged him away from a table filled with people he recognized as Bruce’s friends, and ‘Nutalie’.

They were outside in no time, and Clark’s voice raised as his hissed “what the hell were you thinking?!” seemingly exploded in the air.

Bruce glared at him, and at the implied ‘you idiot’ in his voice.

“Tell your butler or whoever you put up to do it, to put my bike in the exact spot it was, or so help me, I’m reporting this to the school. I’d like to see what they think about Bruce Wayne stealing and _replacing_ other student’s bikes, without their _goddam_ consent!”

His face was sullen as he finally managed to get a few words out from between Clark’s rant, “thought you’d like it.”

“I never asked you for it! You had no right, no right at all goddamn you!” The intensity of his words surprised _him_ , anger coming in waves and coming out in unstoppable word vomit.

“I-”

“Don’t say it. I don’t..I..I never wanted your charity, I’m not like that. I’m not like this either, this, this hysterical person, but you make me so mad I could just punch you. Except I’d probably get bruised knuckles and expelled for my troubles. You getting off scot free. I told you I didn’t want a bike. You can’t just buy people off like that.”

He couldn’t tell if Bruce was genuinely stunned, or just humoring him until he calmed down, but suddenly, it was too much to be around him after that outburst.

“Just, give me my bike back. Please.” Which must have sounded odd, but it was all he could do to stop from adding ‘leave me alone’.

“I don’t know any other way. I agree it was, presumptuous and out of line.” He grimaced. “I thought it would make it easier to have a conversation.”

It was the first time he’d seen Bruce so unsettled, fingers running through his neatly styled hair, getting long strands caught between rough fingers.

“I can’t say I didn’t mean to do it, because it got you talking to me, right?”

The statements were so loaded, that Clark didn’t even know how to begin unpack them. And, well okay, so he had been making it difficult for them to exchange any words, and Bruce might not have really known how much the issue of the bike bothered him. Still, he’d said so at the start right? No bikes.

On the other hand it was sort of flattering that he’d still done it, regardless of how much it would piss Clark off, just to get a reaction out of him.

“Say something.”

“I’m sort of stunned.”

“Sorry.”

He found himself smiling, like a loon. Though with his suddenly fluctuating emotions, that was also a sign he’d gone mad wasn’t it?

“I still want my bike back, and the new one gone before I forgive you. But yeah okay, apology accepted.”

Bruce smiled, wicked and smirky and hot as fuck, even as he said “that might take a while, it’s getting fixed.”

He scowled, but really, his heart was beating a mile a minute, and for just a second there, the memory of ‘ _I need you_ ’ wasn’t as painful as it had been these past few weeks.

“I’m going to ask now, before I assume anything, but would you like to have lunch together, in exchange for your masterful expertise in writing?”

“How can I refuse when you adjective me so wonderfully? Out of curiosity how much did you get in the romance assignment?”

The dark look Bruce cast him, made up for the entire bizarre situation.

***  
It started out differently.

Though Bruce ‘call me Wayne’ made no promises to come to every lunch, he made it to a lot of them. When he didn’t though, there was always a look, a touch, a gruff word.

As touches went, those were few and far in between. Just a tap on the arm, a bump as they walked by each other, shoulders knocking, and the oddest, strangest of them all, the hair flick.

He knew he should feel like an idiot for pining after Bruce. For all intents and purposes, he was taken. The constant calls interrupting a session, and when those aren’t picked up, the on-going pings of text-messages. And when those failed? The fuming presence awaiting their return in front of the classroom.

Clark was only half as curious as to why she didn’t just show up where they had lunch. But the steely, cold gaze he sometimes caught on Bruce’s face was answer enough.

Their work was rarely if ever – with the exception of the meddling of Bruce’s nut of a girlfriend- interrupted. They got into a flow, planning, drafting, writing and re-working depending on what they needed that day.

So, when Bruce suddenly stopped writing, Clark barely noticed. When he did raise his head at the odd feeling of unexpected stillness, those dark eyes were looking at him, expression unreadable. All he knew was that his mouth had gone dry, his lips felt cracked and before he could help it, his tongue peeked out to wet them.

Bruce seemed to startle out of his concentrated gaze and his eyes shifted lower, before he cleared his throat and looked away.

“You look good. Better than the last few weeks.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Thanks, got my appetite back.”

“That’s good,” but he still wouldn’t look at Clark.

Clark grinned, happy and warm and floating. “Yeah, it is.”

They wrapped things up soon after, and even though Bruce was frowning a little as they parted, it didn’t diminish Clark’s feelings about how the day played out. He was still being an idiot, he knew, but for now? He was a happy, hopeful idiot and he was okay with it.

***  
Bruce missed the next three sessions, but Clark was okay with that too, because for the past week? The entire school was buzzing about nothing but the upcoming football game against their rival school.

When Bruce had casually asked him -well casually for Bruce, but he was starting to pick up on the nuances in his facial features and speech patterns- if he’d planned to attend the game, he could only say, “no.”

The frown barely made it on his stoic face, but its presence threatened to drop at any moment. “I’d like to, but I have something to do on the day.”  
“Pity.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

And when they’d finally looked, really looked at each other, Clark finally noticed just how close they were, how warm heat radiated off Bruce’s body as it stood angled towards his. Faces almost zoomed in, noses on the brink of touching. Bruce’s stiff, styled hair against his soft, curled fringe slowly becoming less of a focal point, and more of a blur as each blinked slowly.

The shrill of the phone broke the moment so sharply that Clark recoiled instantly.

“It’s my coach.”

“Uh, okay.”

“Guess I’ll see you after the game?”

“Yeah. Uh, yes. Good luck, break a leg. The other team’s that is.”

And there it was again, making its heart-clenching appearance, Bruce’s smile. “Will do.”

Floating in a bubble is how Clark feels the rest of the day and the day after. Looking outside the classroom window you couldn’t help but notice the team on the field. It was an exercise in restraint, to not look for Bruce in the group of players crashing into each other, to focus on the material being conveyed on one of the smart boards in class instead.

Even though he knew he shouldn’t hope, shouldn’t overthink that one little moment when the space between them became shared, he obsessed over it.

It caught him off-guard at certain moments, in the middle of answering a question, in the midst of lunch, while writing, while cycling. The one constant though, was that his face grew warm, mouth fighting a smile.

And when they did actually meet, post a successful game he might add, Bruce’s devastating smile crushed his heart the the minute he’d said congratulations.

He figured that now that he’d had Bruce’s equivalent of a chest bump, that they might be called friends now.

He was still musing on that when Bruce did the thing, the fringe thing. He flicked it with his fingers and then grinned when Clark wrinkled his nose and moved away so as not to get poked in the eye or something. It could happen, Bruce’s meaty fingers were as thick as they were long, calluses from handling a football and training equipment leaving evidence.

“Knock it off.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.”

He looked at Bruce incredulously, “why Mr. Wayne, jealous of my lustrous hair?”

Bruce had his serious, no nonsense face on, which made what he said next all the more hilarious to Clark, “tremendously.”

He barked out a laugh, and shook his head, “alright chuckles, back to this mess you got us in.”

By which he meant the collaborative, romantic story they were supposed to come up with together. They were sort of the odd pair in the class, as the only two guys who were writing this assignment together, rather than with one of the girls. The fault was entirely Bruce’s however, who volunteered them before he’d even discussed it with Clark.

“I will not have another student make those same weird faces you make, when you’re reading my work. I have feelings too.”

“Well yes, that would be scandalous.”

“Besides, I’m used to working with you, so this won’t be a hardship.”

“Yes, not a hardship for _you_ that is, while the commoner gets the brunt of the work.”

When Bruce grinned this time, he flashed his teeth to show he was teasing “which is why I love that you’re a perfectionist.”

What could you say to that? Something, and quick or it’ll turn out awkward.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

If possible, the grin widened, “you sure about that?”

“Positive,” though the fact his voice went a little high as he lost himself in those pearly whites and wicked smile, was cause enough to cast doubt.

Bruce flicked his fringe once more and laughed when he scowled and held it back. He glared at Bruce and pointed a finger, “watch it, or perfectionist or not, I’m turning this romance into a tragedy.”

And really, he should have seen it coming, but unless you’d encountered it before, nothing could prepare you for a Bruce Wayne tackle to the ground.

“Off! Off you giant oaf!”

“Apologize for calling me an oaf.”

“Never!”

He should have though, because he was being crushed under solid muscle, no chance of wriggling free, and the possibility of rubbing his plump ass all over Bruce’s crotch. Which was the bad idea to rival all bad ideas.

Problem was, he wasn’t thinking, and Bruce was pressing into him further, molding their bodies together so that each breath he took rocked Clark. Until they were breathing in sync, and then hardly breathing at all. Until the breathing took on a new rhythm and sense, a new intensity and ragged quality that seeped and spread all over his nerve endings, pulling on them sharply. Until the one word question of “surrender?” sensitized his ear beyond belief.

He nodded, face aflame, lips holding back a moan, body alive and thrumming but shaking in confusion, or desire he didn’t know which, couldn’t tell where he began or ended.

“Say it.”

His ear must have been as flushed and red as his face, the gust of warm air as Bruce all but breathed into it, caused his entire body to shiver.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah?”

He swallowed, at odds, wanting this feeling to continue forever, and wanting to get up and know where they stood with each other, to know he wasn’t broadcasting his crush so obviously that even Bruce would catch on. 

“Yea-”

He heard the whine before he felt Bruce move, but it was enough to drain the color from his face and for him to scramble away.

Bruce’s face didn’t show anything, no strain, no emotion, it was just frozen and locked at a point behind them.

The whine was closer now, but still a distance away. It was funny how sharp and loud it had been when his nose was inches from the ground, but he couldn’t see the ambling figure of Bruce’s girlfriend, as she tried to locate them.

One thing was for sure though, he wasn’t going to wait for her to find them, and what he’d taken to consider as their space. “Go, she’s looking for you.”

If possible, Bruce’s face got even more unreadable, but eventually he nodded, raising a hand in goodbye as he left.

Clark folded to the ground again, covering his eyes with an arm. _What the fuck was that._

***  
The next time they met, there was no mention of the impromptu wrestling match, no mention of the sort of but not really interrupted writing session, and no mention of Bruce’s girlfriend.

Mostly because it was class, and he needed to pay attention, while Bruce was busy being, well, Bruce, doing something on the computer.

When it was finally time for lunch, he wasn’t surprised to see that Bruce’s girlfriend was waiting right outside the class to ambush them.

She gave Clark such a look of loathing that he was momentarily confused when immediately after she switched to a smile upon seeing Bruce behind him. 

“Hey! Let’s have lunch! I called everyone and they’re all waiting for you!”

Bruce looked at him first, then back at her, “not today.”

She was utterly flabbergasted that he’d refuse her, and it almost made Clark snicker. “B-but! I got everyone together! You can’t not show up Bruuuuuce.”

“I have work.”

“I’ll get mad if you don’t! I won’t come to the game either!”

“Okay.”

“Let’s go then.”

“No. Don’t come to the game if you don’t want to.”

At the stunned look on her face, that was slowly being painted red, Clark beat a hasty retreat. As the explosion that followed, he realized too late, that he shouldn’t have been there to see the conversation. He also realized that Bruce was casually walking besides him like he hadn’t just publicly humiliated the school’s idol and left her a screeching, stomping mess behind them.

It was sort of terrifying. Not that he didn’t know Bruce could be brutal with his words, he just, hadn’t expected him not to try and placate her a bit more. Even though it made him happy. Ecstatic really, that Bruce had sort of chosen him instead?

But he had to say the words, otherwise….

“Was that really okay?”

Bruce shrugged, pulling out his pad and keyboard, “we need to get this finished, so it takes priority.”

Clark must have looked doubtful, because Bruce stopped unpacking his stuff and tried to reassure him, “she’s going to the game. It means more to her to be there, than it means to me.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

He tired to lighten the mood, because the current one? Wasn’t conductive to writing a romantic collaboration.

“So hypothetically…”

“Hypothetically.”

“If Bruce Wayne was to make a romantic gesture towards someone, hypothetically, what would it entail?”

“Hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically.”

“Marriage.”

“Sure sure, marriage, but how would you entice someone into marrying you, hypothetically.”

“ _I_ need to entice them?”

“I said hypothetically didn’t I? Jesus, get over yourself, we all know you’re a catch.”

“I’m a catch? Why, thank you.”

Clark snorted, “heard that one before, have you?”

“Aplenty.”

“Well Mr. Aplenty, this romance isn’t going to write itself, so dig deep down and find a romantic bone.”

“How would Clark Kent make a romantic gesture?”

He spluttered. “Clark Kent doesn’t have the time to think about romance, between biking to school and back, maintaining a scholarship, and tutoring rising football stars.”

“First, I’m a catch, now I’m a rising star. Clark you’re making me blush.”

“Lies, falsehoods and fallacies!”

“You wound me.”

“The likelihood of that is even lesser than that of you blushing.”

“What kind of tutor are you, putting down your star pupil.”

“The realistic kind. That aside, what would you consider as romantic?”

“Marriage.”

“No, Jesus, marriage is not romantic, it’s two people who want to share bills and health care benefits for life. The lead up to marriage should be romantic, like movie stuff, flowers, chocolate, acts of selflessness, that sort of thing.”

“Like getting someone a new bike, after seeing the wreck that is their old one?”

“Shut up! Unsolicited acts of selfishness are not romantic in the least. The only reason you got that bike was to try to buy your way back to into my tutelage. I’m talking about acts of heroicness, saving people, supporting people, that sort of thing.”

“That’s a little jaded. Marriage could have all that too. It doesn’t have to be something as grand as saving people.”

He gave Bruce a look. “Anyways, we got off on a tangent there. Let’s just take an old cliché and work with it.”

“Poor exchange student pining over the handsome rising star of the football team?”

He hit Bruce with his notebook. Hard. 

Narrowing his eyes, he stared down at the man, “how about spoiled, rich, young master falls head over heels for the school genius?”

Bruce grinned, rubbing the top of his head as if checking for bumps, “that works too.”

“Then, start writing young master.”

He did. They wrote separately, choosing to focus on the character’s they’d chosen and developing a profile for them first. The more information they fed into the profiles, the more the characters changed from the original idea they’d come up with. Which was fine with Clark, as even as a cliché, it had hit too close to home for him. They’d probably get called out for it in class as well, lack of originality if nothing else.

He couldn’t ever recall laughing so much in his entire life. Even Bruce’s tough exterior and monosyllabic responses melted away to revel an eccentric sense of humor, and an affinity for really bad puns. The first time he heard the explosion of breath that was Bruce’s laughter, he wondered if there was any sound more beautiful on earth.

It wasn’t all fun and games, they also bickered, constantly, but mostly about how Bruce was portraying the characters, and how detail-stuffed Clark’s dialogues were.

But by the end of the assignment, Clark was frustrated for an entirely different reason.

For one thing, Bruce’s hair flick had evolved into a tug, and sometimes ear flick. The amount of times Clark found himself in the middle of a Bruce tackle to the ground were also growing in proportion to the number of characterization disagreements they had; mainly the ones Clark instigated, especially with regards to how Bruce should just stick to the dumb jock persona and not try to make a rocket scientist out of someone who got hit in the head one too many times by elbows and knees.

There was also that one time.

He was walking ahead, looking back every couple of steps or so because he’d had the oddest sensation that he was being watched, but continuously finding Bruce’s face focused on the ground. Which was what he should have been doing instead, because the next instant, the world had turned upside down and something heavy had settled on top of him.

His glasses had fallen somewhere, because the world was suddenly a blur, and spots were dancing around in his vision.

His first instinct was to get up, but the weight on top of him had him pinned. He’d be lying if he said he was used to this by now. Mostly because wrestling and shifting around and getting pinned happened while he was on his back. There were a number of reasons to be thankful for that.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. No. I can’t see.”

“Ah, that’s why you’re squinting. Hang on.”

“No, wait don’t get up.”

That was followed by a lengthy pause. “Why?”

“First, do you see my glasses anywhere? Check before you get up, just in case you roll right on them.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“They’re my only pair.”

“Alright.”

He was sort of sandwiched right between the ground and Bruce’s huge chest, close to his heartbeat. Being without his glasses was a vulnerable feeling, he’d always relied on his sight to decipher the nuances of people’s feelings towards him or others, so he’d expected to feel a little scared that he was in this position; but somehow, with Bruce’s steady heartbeat, and slow exhalations, all he felt was safe.

A little embarrassed too.

“See anything?”

“No.”

“Okay, you can get up now. Just, careful okay? They couldn’t have fallen far.”

“Wait. I think I see them.”

His own heart started beating quicker, a little conflicted, especially when Bruce began to wiggle around. “Hey! If you see them, then get off!”

“Hang on.”

Bruce kept moving around, right on top of him, and Clark’s own heartbeat had started beating to a wilder rhythm.

“Nope, not them.”

He huffed out a breath. “Okay, off you go, it might be under us.”

“Wait, can you even see anything?”

“I’m not blind, just near sighted.”

When Bruce shifted again, it wasn’t to get off though, it was to stare right into his face.

“How clear am I now.”

“Just a little blurry.” And if he was all breathless as he said it? He could claim that Bruce was squeezing the air out of him the longer he stayed on top of him.

But Bruce had other ideas, and soon, his face was right up-close and personal with Clark’s.

And when he said, “how about now?” Clark had to swallow because he just knew, if he said a single word, their lips would touch.

There would be no going back after that, no chance to explain it was an accident. Suddenly, having it right in front of him, and the possibility of finally tasting those stern, thin lips, made him scared. He turned his face away.

“Idiot. Your face is too close, of course I can’t.”

“Oh.”

Bruce moved, finally, and Clark got up on his knees, hands firm on the ground, moving slowly and carefully, just in case his glasses were under him. They weren’t.

The excuse to keep his attention elsewhere and search for any dark shape that could be his frames, was a welcome one. He assumed Bruce was doing the same thing, except he didn’t need to be crawling to spot them.

He wasn’t sure how long exactly he’d spent on his hands and knees, but it felt like forever before Bruce finally said “found them.”

Which he’d conveniently added as he slid a hand from Clark’s neck to the small of his back.

“Are you treating me like a dog?”

“Woof?”

He got up and tried to smack a blurry Bruce, but ended up losing his balance in his haste to swipe at the man. Bruce caught him, and he found himself once more inhaling Bruce’s scent and clinging onto his chest.

Bruce handed over the glasses, but kept a hand wrapped around his waist, to keep him steady he guessed, and finally the world came back into focus.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He could have sworn Bruce hesitated, holding something back, but eventually his expression cleared.

The quiet mood they’d fallen into wasn’t uncomfortable, though for Clark, it had an air of finality to it.

They were editing their last draft, ready for submission, and consequently, the end of their class together. Technically they each had a final assignment, but they’d been given several choices to choose from. Bruce had gone with writing an essay about topics that fall under creative writing, while Clark had stuck to the portfolio building option. He knew for a fact that Bruce wouldn’t need his help for that, so this was it, their last session.

He’d be submitting it on his own too, since Bruce’s would be in practice all day. Something about the season finale, last game before post season or state wide something. He’d be embarrassed about it if Bruce hadn’t said he didn’t need to know the game to enjoy seeing a match.

Which was sort of how they fell into the next topic.

“The school’s organizing a trip to the stadium and back for the game.”

“Oh? Good for your fans then.”

Bruce snorted, “good for you too.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you can come to the game, and cite it as a school activity.”

“Yes, but why would I come to the game in the first place?”

“To cheer on the rising star of the football team?”

“No thanks, I’ll pass.”

Bruce gave him another one of those strange looks that had started to show up with a lot more frequency. “What if…”

When Bruce didn’t say anything else, he prompted, “what if what?”

“What if I made it worth your while?”

And if that wasn’t a loaded question, Clark didn’t know what was. His mouth was a little dry as he asked, “how?”

Bruce smiled, that 100 watts, gonna charm the pants off of you smile, that made thinking rationally impossible. “Meet me in the lockers afterwards, and you’ll find out.”

“That hardly seems fair,” he pointed out.  
“Take a chance Clark, live a little.”

The irony wasn’t lost on him. “Cussing and vegetating on a chair while a bunch of guys in tights ram into each other, is not the same.”

“Only way to find out is to come to the game.”

“Fine.”

“Yeah?”

And gosh, did he have to purr the damn word as he said it? Clark swallowed and turned his face away, trying and failing to hide rose tinted cheeks. “Yeah.”

***  
He was sort of embarrassed at the speed with which he’d located and signed up for the pick-up, drop-off service for the game.

The promise in Bruce’s words could mean a number of things, and at his most confident, Clark dreamt about Bruce confessing, holding him tight and pressing them together like puzzle pieces clicking into place.

At his least assured, Clark’s thoughts went dark, came up with every unsavory scenario in existence. He told himself that, even if Bruce happened to be using him this entire time, that he’d gotten what he wanted and more from their impromptu deal.

Still, just because he saw how Bruce cut off his girlfriend in an instant, didn’t mean he had the full story. Plus, he knew he wasn’t nearly as annoying and clingy as she was, so there.

It was surprisingly easy to get permission to stay out late for the game. Then again, the grounds were frozen solid, so there was little if any work to be done in the fields.

He barely saw Bruce at all in the period following up to the game, except for glimpses on the field where a red-faced coach screamed his head off every few seconds.

The anticipation made a butterfly’s nest in his stomach. Emotions and excitement and worry fluttered around, caused the tingling in his sides to be more pronounced, to knot and twist his guts as he worried over what Bruce really had planned.

Once the actual day is there, his relief is cut short by the unexpected crowd climbing into the bus. He’d dumbly assumed that the entire student body would ride their fancy cars to the game. He hadn’t counted on the novelty of this being a sort of field trip, à la how the other half lives.

Thankfully, they had no problem with him mounting the bike at the bus’s front, but that was the one thing to be thankful for. Once he was actually in the bus, he finally noticed a rather familiar face.  
Turns out, Bruce was right about Nutalie coming to the game with or without his blessings, because there she was, front row seat, holding court over all the other fangirls. A few guys hung around the back, and he nodded at them as he passed, making sure not to trip in front of this crowd.

The yelling, cheering and screeching would have been welcome at any other time, but knowing who was heading it, he couldn’t even summon up a smile. He felt more isolated than ever, and he hadn’t even told anyone he had no clue what a football game entailed.

Bruce had teased him -which was a shock in itself- about not knowing squat about one of the most popular sports ever, and he’d countered by asking Bruce to explain golf to him. At his silence, Clark teased, “what, isn’t golf the sacred sport of the rich and retired?”

Football never made it as a focal topic again, hint taken.

By the time they’d made it to the stadium, he was on the brink of deafness, and welcoming it. They shuffled out, he checked his bike, not because he thought it was damaged, but to ensure some distance between him and the others. When of the guys disembarking had shoved him with a shoulder as he stepped down, and just glared at him instead of apologizing. He decided to make sure that didn’t happen by being any closer than he had to.

They were early enough that he snagged a seat somewhat in the center of the field’s line of vision. He was taken in by the displays, the set ups, banners and abandoned pompoms shaking as the wind passed them by.

Then the whole place filled up, and he was in awe. He felt small in the scheme of things, the preparations some people had taken in coming to the game, the drinks the stands the food. It suddenly downed on him that this was a big deal, this game meant something more than the little ribs and jibes he’d said to Bruce. It felt like he was part of something much bigger, and the excitement and sense of belonging were overwhelming and he found himself smiling.

It felt that extra bit special, that he was practically begged and enticed with the promise of something, just to come to the game to watch Bruce. That out of this entire crowd, Clark’s attendance meant much more to Bruce than his girlfriend’s.

It was a heady feeling.

Once the game started, he found himself tracking Bruce’s every movement, and trying to make sense of what the mechanics of the game were. He noticed that more often than not, Bruce had the ball. But other than that, it was hard to concentrate on anything other than Bruce’s butt in the tightest, whitest pants he’d ever seen. Even from the distance, the screens made up for lack of details.

The novelty wore off after a while, even though the scores for each quarter were neck and neck, a point there and a point there skewing the winning scale. Excitement picked up right at the end, where it was literally anyone’s game, and he found himself cheering, yelling, chanting Bruce’s name as he ran in the very few seconds, trying to score. Someone tried to tackle him close to the opposing team’s zone and Bruce pretty much leapt to keep away. He hadn’t even realized he’d stood up until Bruce crossed over with the ball and started pumping his hands in the air.

The crowd was standing up in uproar, people were screaming, streamers and fireworks and God knew what else was shooting out of a point on either side of the field. He was smiling, mouth aching, fists clenched, and yelling down at the field. All through the pile-on their school team had done, and then all through the attempt to lift Bruce carrying the trophy, his heart pounded, and he kept glancing back as he made way outside. He needed to be at least near the lockers when Bruce came out.

He was no idiot, no one would be allowed there, but there had to be a waiting space close by for when the players headed out.

He found someone blocking his way as he tried to leave, and vaguely recognized him as someone he’d seen at school.

He mimed trying to pass, but the guy wouldn’t budge. He was bulky enough to be on the football team himself, so Clark didn’t want to piss him off. When charades didn’t work, he looked straight into his eyes to show he wasn’t intimidated, “hey, I’m trying to get to the lockers so I need to pass through.”

He tried not to think too hard on why the guy’s nostrils flared, or why he glared at him, especially when he moved to let him pass.

“Down the hallway, left and then right.”

Stunned, Clark thanked him and went. Ha, maybe he really was imagining things out of a sense of caution.

The lockers were completely empty. In fact, these were sort of deserted. He wondered if there was supposed to be more than one set of locker rooms in the big stadium, but then again, he’d been heard the guy say down, left and right, right?

Actually, the more he stood there, the more it looked like this was a storage that just happened to have some lockers in it.

So, the guy really was a prick. He traced back his way, and saw a few people standing near the exit back to the hallway.

But that was all he remembered seeing as the world went dark.

***  
His head hurt. His arms too, except, theirs was a burning sensation, and his head’s was a pounding one.

The world was a blur, and even if it weren’t, there wasn’t enough light to help him decipher the scene in front of him.

When someone spoke, bile rose from his stomach, and the first trickles of panic started to set in. 

“See? He’s not dead, he’s moving.”

“Guys like him are cockroaches, they don’t die no matter what you do.”

Someone laughed, it wasn’t Natalie this time, it was another guy. 3 of them so far. His hands were growing numb, they’d tied them behind him.

“Let’s give it a go then!”

Fear set in seconds before the first kick landed. The sharp edges dug into his face, and for a second, he was glad he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

The next one caught his mouth and he coughed, it had almost sent him to his side. He couldn’t protect his face, couldn’t do anything to move or try to get up. He set his jaw, closed his eyes and hoped he’d pass out, or for someone, anyone to find them.

They laughed, “Bruce’s gonna love this.”

“He’ll probably be pissed we started without him.”

“We’ll save him a spot, how about the nose?”

_Oh God._

His eyes flew open and the pain in his face, in his sides as they alternated kicks and jibs was nothing, absolutely nothing to the crushing, searing pain in his heart as things started to make a twisted sense. The game, the bus, the lockers. Bruce’s ideas, all of them. He should have never. He knew he wasn’t good enough. He knew it was a fantasy. 

He knew…but he still did, like an idiot. Like a stupid, obsessed, optimistic moron.

Anguish. That’s what they called it when your heart broke into little pieces, when your lungs compressed and air was replaced by pain, _pain_. His throat constricted, his body shook, and limbs went cold.

He wouldn’t cry, not for those fuckers to enjoy, not in front of the bitch either. He’d give them no satisfaction.

“Fucking stubborn ass coward, trying to act tough.”

“Alex! You said you’d teach him a lesson! You promised! Look he’s not even _crying_.”  
“Shut up princess, you’re supposed to keep a lookout.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up! I helped you out! You idiots would have never managed to get him alone without me!”

If he’d had it in him to laugh, he would have. But as warmth seeped back in, as relief that Bruce hadn’t betrayed him flooded his body, and he could finally gulp some much needed air back in; the taste of blood was enough to prompt his panic into full drive.

He screamed.

They were scared of someone finding out, the floors were cold, the musty smell was the same as before, so that meant he was probably still at the stadium. If he could get someone, anyone, a janitor, a lost spectator, anybody to hear him, he could survive this night.

“Shit! Shut him up!”

Something foul was being shoved at his face, fingers trying to get his mouth open to stuff it in, and struggled and pulled his tied legs towards him, trying to kick with them both, trying to do as much damage as he could.

His knee smarted, he’d knocked it against one of them, and he heard someone curse.

“Fuck! I’ll teach you a lesson you goddam bitch!”

But then his legs were pulled back, and someone tried to pull his jeans down.

He couldn’t yell or they’d gag him, but he was horrified of what they could actually do. He didn’t want to think it, but as the hands persisted in pulling his jeans down to his ankles, reality came crashing around him.

He tried to press his knees together, holding onto the fabric and locking his feet, but someone shoved him, and he found his face scant distance from the floor.

They ripped the fabric of his briefs, and his shouts grew in volume. He didn’t even know what he was saying, just that he was trying to make enough noise to get someone to find them.

They were taunting him. One of them was shoving his covered dick against Clark’s exposed ass and mimicking a fuck, thrusting against him.

“Now you’ll never show your face at school again.”

The sound of a zipper was like a blow to his face. He tried to move forward, crawling on his stomach, not caring that the shredded fabric of his underwear was pulling apart, his flesh exposed against the cold tile.

When a hand settled on his back, he choked up, opened his mouth on a plea, pride be damned, “pl-”

“What the fuck is going on here?”

The rage behind the shout, the shock, and the curse were all things he’d never heard from Bruce before.

Suddenly, it seemed like someone had hit fast-forward. He heard the bitch scream, heard the crunch and snap of someone getting hit. He heard a scream of agony that rivaled his own as whoever was at his back was dragged, or punched aside.

He moved, shuffled and dragged whatever strength he had left, to push himself away from what was going on, to make himself less of a target in case they decided to bargain with him. He couldn’t get his tied hands to go over his legs, jeans in the way, but he tried, and if the pain was enough to make him black out. The minute his hands were in front of him, he tried to chew and pull the rope or whatever they used, apart.

When someone came near him, he tried to bash them with his still trapped hands.

“Easy.”

“Get the fuck back.”

“Clark it’s-”

“GET BACK!”

He aimed wildly, ears ringing, vision obscured. He could feel blood on his face, seeping from his mouth, but that was all, everything else was hazy.

“Please, Clark it’s me. It’s Bruce.”

“D-don’t, I can’t. Get a-a-way.”

He fell forward, dizzy and in pain and trying to struggle against whoever it is. But he knew didn’t he? It felt like him, and he’d know the feeling anywhere, even under excruciating pain, he could always recognize the safety of Bruce’s wide chest.

The last thing he heard as he lost consciousness was, “sorry I failed you.”

***  
It wasn’t the hospital. Even though he could smell the things that made a medical facility stink, the sheets, the ceilings and the curtains indicated it wasn’t a hospital. Mostly because they weren’t stark white.

There was snoring to his right. He moved gingerly, wincing when he felt his head throb and something burn on his face.

Bruce was wearing a robe over pajama pants.

He’d rub his eyes to make sure, but his whole body protested the notion of moving. One eye felt swollen, the other weighed down by something. His lips stung, his chin was throbbing, and that was just his upper body.

He flinched when he remembered what almost happened in the end.

It all came flooding back.

Someone had been holding his head down, he hadn’t realized at the time, but he could see it as if he were outside of his body. Hands pulling his legs apart, the rip of fabric, the slide of fabric and rivets all over his back. Holding back his tears, holding in his words, nearly begging them stop.

He finally let go.

His breath hitched and he cried, silently first, and then massive, heaving sobs as he recalled every kick, every word, and that awful, blood curdling moment when he thought Bruce had set him up.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but weep. He heard Bruce before he felt him, and even then, he tried to jump back, to move away. His traumatized body incapable of anything but jerky movements.

Bruce persisted, and Clark found his head tucked under a chin, a hand running soothing, warm lines down his back, stopping the minute he flinched, right above the waistband of whatever pants he was wearing.

He cried for himself, for the little boy constantly rejected. By family, relatives, friends, peers and strangers. He cried for the little boy who wasn’t anything special, but dreamt he was. He cried for the little boy who happened to like other boys, but couldn’t find one to like him back. He cried because he’d been brutalized by people that hated him, even though they didn’t know them. Lastly, he cried because this wasn’t how he’d wanted Bruce to be with him, wasn’t how he expected to receive comfort, and because even in his wildest, hopeful dreams, Bruce could never love a damaged, broken boy like him.

***

He woke up alone.

This time, he was home. He was in his own bed, his own clothes, staring out of the same window bright with the rays of a new day.

It was almost like he’d dreamt the entire thing.

That fantasy was shattered the moment he moved his right hand, and saw the cast. His left hand fared much better, despite the bandages around his wrist. He stretched it to his nightstand and sure enough, he felt the frames of his glasses.

The world was less scary now that everything was laser sharp and focused. He didn’t know if it were a blessing or a curse that he hadn’t been able to see the faces of his attackers. He’d recognized the bitch though.

Bile rose up to his throat and he tried to push himself fast enough to reach the trash can.

He missed.

The sudden movement made him equally as queasy and he heaved again. Tears stung his eyes, self-pity and bitterness warring within. His tears were silent, drowning out the sounds outside.

Clark tried and failed to clear his mind, to be a blank slate, block the memories away, but couldn’t. His thoughts cycled endlessly into one big loop of despair and stress. He thought of his parents downstairs, thought about the promise to not make any problems for the only family that had picked him to raise, when his own relatives hadn’t bothered. He thought of the medical bill from hell that they were no doubt going to incur, or had already incurred. He thought, ridiculously, of his bike, hanging on the rented school bus, abandoned and irreplaceable now. He tired not to think of Bruce, but of school, and of missing classes, and the scholarship hanging on by a very thin thread. How long would they give him to recover? The semester was almost over anyways. He could ace the exams, he just needed to study the required material. They couldn’t afford the school, not even that one semester, and they couldn’t afford the withdrawal of the scholarship.

He supposed transferring to a public school and commuting 4 hours a day wouldn’t be so bad. Especially since, he didn’t think he could go back there. Couldn’t look the students in the face and see his attackers in all of them. Or Nutalia’s smug face as he lost his scholarship and got kicked out of school.

The humiliation of being the punching bag of a bunch of hoodlums, and the shame of almost getting…

A knock at the door sobered him up. He called out a yes, only to discover how hoarse and strained it came out. Lips cracked, throat walls stuck together, it was any wonder he could reply at all. But the message must have been clear enough.

They came in together, faces grave, and he wished for a just a short second, that he’d never made it back.

They sat on either side of the bed, and if he could have made any sound, it would come out in a whimper.  
She reached for his hand and he held it back, strained the bruised knuckles into a fist and fought to not close his eyes. He was the consolation prize they could afford, he was the only older kid left, and the only one able to pick up farm work and chores. All they’d asked of him was to stay out of trouble, to not shame them. He’d done both in the previous school, and now this.

When his Pa reached for his hand as well, something, a string in his chest snapped and he went limp.

“We were scared. We were so scared for you.”

“Clark, we’re here for you. We love you. And if I ever catch those bastards, you better be ready to take over the farm, because the only way I’m coming back then is in a coffin.”

“John!”

“Don’t you get started Martha, we almost lost the boy, and you’ve done cried all night and day. You know you’d want to see the boy get some justice.”

He looked at them like he was seeing them for the first time. Like something enigmatic that you suddenly found you understand, that it made perfect sense.

Then the crying started. It wasn’t him though. He tried to uncurl his fingers, to sooth but his Ma had already leapt towards him, careful of the bandages, but too close for complete comfort, and he found himself petting her back, slowly and with awkward fingers. His other hand still enclosed in John’s.

He pushed himself, sound gurgling from his throat, but he had to say it, he had to let them know. “Thank you. Love you Ma, love you Pa.”

A squeeze of the hand, and a loud sniffle were their responses.

***  
There was complete radio silence from Bruce. The school too.

He was being doctored back to health via peach cobblers, apple pie, chicken noodle soup, and enough gravy to run a river through the fields and flood the land behind.

He’d never been spoiled rotten, but there it was. He tried to protest that food wasn’t going to make him heal faster, and received a tut in response.

It was starting to feel like he was living with aliens who’d replaced his real parents, but as this version of them was much nicer and accommodating, he really had nothing to complain about.

And maybe he was trying to blame the nightmares on the heavy meals, but he’d been eating that same cooking forever, so it could only be further trauma from the attack. Which is what they’d taken to calling it. That was because they could see the physical evidence of the beat-up he’d suffered and the chafing where the ropes had cut. He hadn’t mentioned the near rape, and they hadn’t asked anything close, so he kept it to himself.

He had asked though, how he’d gotten back. They just looked at each other, communicating in a language of their own, and then saying he was dropped off by a limo.

That settled it, he knew only one person who had a limo.

But Bruce’s absence continued, and that hopeful part in his heart slowly died with each passing day. Bruce had said he’d failed him, if he remembered correctly, so could that be why? He remembered when he woke up in that strange room with Bruce, and wondered if he’d imagined that.

He sighed, got up and got ready to go downstairs for lunch. As ever, his wounds healed fast, and by the 4th day, the only sign of his pain were fading scars on his temple, the slight discoloration on his ribs, and thin white lines around his wrists. But those too would fade. It was the one thing in his genes he was grateful for.

On the other hand, his glasses would need to be changed because he couldn’t see well with them anymore. Ironically, he could see better without them, but the shapes were still a little blurry. Funny, they were a lot sharper today.

He wondered if being hit in the head generated some new cells for the eyes too, because he could have sworn his vision was improving.

Then again, he might just be hallucinating this entire day, because there was no way that was Bruce Wayne, sitting at the table with his parents, having sweet tea.

From the grimace on his face as he tried to drink the offered drink, maybe not.

“Clark, come say hi to your friend.”

He wished they’d had the forethought to tell him before he showed up disheveled, wearing pants that were stripped, just a little too short and a flannel shirt.

Bruce looked up at him, then promptly looked elsewhere. He wasn’t sure why that hurt, but it did. He found himself suddenly angry. Angry at himself, angry at Bruce and at the fucking situation they’d found themselves in. So help him, if Bruce was in his house to pity him, or to tell him he couldn’t deal with what happened, he’d deck him. The words _it wasn’t my fault, but it might be yours_ were constantly at the back of his throat, itching to be hurled while Bruce made small talk with his parents. Ever polite, strangely charming, but then again, wasn’t that what he’d expected from Bruce?

When he absolutely couldn’t hold it in anymore, he cut in with, “can I have a minute with Bruce upstairs? We’ll come down for lunch. If he’s staying.” And then, he cast a look at Bruce, trying to force their eyes to meet by not backing down from the stare. Bruce met his eyes, and nodded. He almost smirked in triumph because Bruce couldn’t correct him in front of his parents and risk being impolite, but he was just tired, anxious and ready to get whatever Bruce came to say, out and over with.

His steps on the stairs were light and quick, while Bruce seemed to drag behind him. A quick look showed that Bruce was studying every last little detail of the house. He told himself Bruce wasn’t the type to judge other people’s lifestyles against his own. Then he remembered the bike and promptly told himself to shut up, and stop assuming things about someone he really didn’t know all that well.

When they got to the room, he closed the door and turned to face Bruce. He could see him cataloguing Clark’s entire life through the starkness of the room. A stack of books on the floor, a writing desk that had aged with him and tested his knees if he stood up too abruptly, a closet, a bed and the nightstand. Nothing on the walls, no prints on the sheets, no figures atop anything. It could be anyone’s room.

He saw it through Bruce’s eyes and was left wanting.

But he was too busy thinking about Bruce’s perception of him and his humble life, to notice his approach.

He jumped away, reflexes or self-preservation kicking in, he didn’t know. He held up a hand, keeping a distance between them. “Stop! You can’t! I-I don’t want…I..” and he spluttered, unsure, conflicted, even more so when he looked up, and saw the hurt look on Bruce’s face.

“But I..”

“You can’t just walk in and touch someone like..like. Y-you’re not supposed to, you have a girlfriend for God’s sake, you can’t. Even if she’s a…fuck.” Words choked up in his throat, and images replied in his mind. Their closeness, the playful touches and the moments when he’d felt they were drown together so finely that a breeze couldn’t separate them. But he couldn’t accept all of that, not knowing Bruce’s real purpose behind them.

And didn’t that just hurt, to bring up the stupid bitch, to have been caught in this triangle, even if Bruce didn’t share any feelings towards him, it wasn’t fair that that’s why he’d been…attacked.

When Bruce stiffened, he knew he’d done the right thing, even if he felt the cold of disappointment, and that same flame of anger.

“Clark..I think yo-”

“Don’t. I get it. I. Sometimes I get mixed up, confused by why someone pays me attention. I mean, you wanted to work together, you never signed up for..this. God. I, you must know. And this is probably punishment for da-”

“No. You’re wrong, please, Clark please just listen. You can decide afterwards, but let me explain. Please, I’m begging.”

Wasn’t that what he’d wanted? Answers, the whole truth? His arm grew heavy, tired and weighed and he slowly lowered it.

Bruce took it as a sign, and when he looked up at the questioning eyes, requesting, maybe outright begging, he nodded. He could see Bruce’s outstretched arms, fingers trembling a little, seeking him, he realized that he wasn’t the only one in need of comfort.

Bruce had been there, had walked into something he’d never expected, had probably been searching for him that night.

He felt warm, gentle arms around him but still held himself stiff.

He knew he should be panicking, held like this, but he didn’t. He’d known all along that he felt safe with Bruce, known even as he doubted him those few seconds in that hell, that if Bruce came in with the intent to hurt him, he’d still feel safer for his presence. He was so fucked up over Bruce he didn’t know how to rewind back to that ostracized kid who didn’t mind being left alone.

“You can’t,” because really, this wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

“Then tell me what I can do instead.”

Looking at Bruce, trying to gauge his sincerity, he took the risk of asking and plunged in, “why do you even care?”

The pain on Bruce’s face, wasn’t it the same as his? Wasn’t that anguish written in the alarming wobble in his lips, the slant of his eyes and the sudden tightness of his gentle hold, “don’t you know? Can’t you tell I love you?”

His mouth went dry, the shock at the words barely registering as his thoughts raced, “what about Natalie?”

“Fucking Natalie, I was trying to tell you you’ve misunderstood. She’s no one to me, she’s a job I’ve been given. Making sure she wasn’t embarrassing her family, reigning her in. And that’s over, she’s not allowed within 50 miles of you and her parents have already shipped her off to boarding school in Europe.”

“What about the party? She was your…oh…you were her escort, not the opposite. But I mean, that time in class?”

“I..sorry, I was being a dickhead then, your words not mine. You were acting like you didn’t care if we ever talked again and I didn’t know how to deal with that.”

“But are you sure? I mean I don’t, I didn’t notice anything. Are you just fucking with my head because of what happened? Because I swear I’ll kill you. Someday anyway.”

“Clark, I love you, but you’re so dense it’s equal parts adorable and annoying sometimes.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“How many football players do you know, wrestle with their geeky male friends to the ground on a daily basis.” He raised an eyebrow too, it wasn’t fair.

“Male tutor.”

“See? Did you know that I’ve officially completed all my required classes to graduate, and have been taking college courses while at school? I’m only in the facility because my parents are trying to make me interact with people my age, and because they find my football career amusing.”

“So when you’re on the computers..wait, then why are you taking a writing class?”

“Can’t you guess? Even though you of all people know how upset I get that you’ve found a flaw?”

He snorted, still sort of floating and unbelieving, “upset is a tame word for it.”

“Did you really think I couldn’t spot your glasses for a whole 45 minutes?”

“My what?”

“When you fell and lost your glasses. I found them immediately.”

“What the hell, then why didn’t you say so?”

Bruce groaned. “And miss the perfect view of you in those tight jeans, bent over, crawling on hands and knees? Despite what you think, I _am_ human.”

All the blood in his body rushed to his face, his mouth was hanging open, words wouldn’t form. He was starting to remember all those near kisses, the teasing touches and ‘accidental’ brushes, which apparently weren’t really accidental.

“Clark, aren’t you going to say it?”

“I don’t know what to say…I’m trying to process the fact you’ve been courting me for months. That basically you were playing with me you asshole.”

“Never. It was never a game. I just had to make sure, that’s not a misunderstanding you can come back from easily. I was trying to protect both of us, I promise. So, please?”

“You’re not off the hook. There’s..Jesus there’s a ton of questions I have to ask, but yeah, yeah I love you, you big oaf.”

“And you accuse _me_ of being unromantic.”

Suddenly, he looked at Bruce in alarm, eyes blown wide, eyebrows to his hairline, “you better not propose marriage or I’ll really kill you.”

When Bruce laughed, everything changed. He laughed too, and laughed and laughed and held tighter to Bruce, whose face was buried in his neck now, laughing or crying or a mixture of both. They stayed like that, embracing, swaying, holding on, white knuckles clutching fabric, clutching each other, afraid of letting go. He was safe again. He was safe and he had Bruce and a million questions, but the most important one had been answered.

Even though it was muffled, Clark could hear it clearly as if were being whispered in his ears. Bruce’s ‘sorry, I’m so sorry’ was a mantra being soaked into his skin.

When the call came to get their behinds downstairs for lunch, they eased their holds on each other, not fully letting go.

Clark looked at Bruce, fingers of one hand wiping away the tracks of tears. Tears of pain? Tears of guilt? He wouldn’t ask.

He pressed his lips to Bruce’s and saw the surprise in his eyes.

Finally, those smoldering eyes were on him again, drowning him into wicked promises. He moved his lips against Bruce’s, feeling the plumpness, the press and give as they met, half opened, but starved, tentative and exploring. Bruce tasted like sweet tea and warmth.

Before Bruce could deepen the kiss, Clark pulled back and winked.

“Not until after lunch. You still owe me answers.”

Bruce sighed the sigh of the put upon, and for a second there, everything was back to normal between them.  
***

He hadn’t stayed further than the short meal, and nothing had happened at the door, but Clark attributed that to the fact his parents were still looking between them oddly trying to guess this new development.

But he hardly had time to think of Bruce, not with his clean bill of health, and doctor recommendation that he resume his normal life.

He honestly didn’t want to walk back there, literally and figuratively. But he guessed it was time to find out if he needed to get a loan, abandon school and work at the nearest burger joint.

His first surprise was his bike sitting outside in the exact spot he always left it. Looking exactly like its normal rundown self. Familiarity and muscle memory had him nearly at the school gate by the time he realized he’d actually gotten on.

His heart started pounding. He took deep breaths, tried to shake off the wave of panic and nausea, and to loosen his fingers from the sudden fist they’d formed.

He sat at the gate for a full half hour, when he knew for certain everyone was inside the classrooms, before he took a step inside.

The counselor found him, face pinched and lips thin, and told him to step into his office for a moment.

His second surprise was the paper that was pushed towards him, guaranteeing his scholarship for the end of the year, no matter what, if he’d sign a non-disclosure and promise not to sue the school for any emotional distress or physical damages.

He wasn’t sure who was more surprised when he’d bluffed and said, “I’ll have my lawyer take a look at it before I sign anything.”

It was still the right thing to do, judging by the amount of sweat the counselor was generating.

His third and final surprise? The gigantic announcement in the hallway proclaiming the immediate expulsion of two members of the football team, and one member of the basketball team. As well as a female student. No reasons were given, no details as to why.

It had Bruce’s stamp all over it though.

He felt suddenly light, able to breathe and then tears unbidden slid silently down his face. He tried to breathe through them, centering himself. He felt absolutely grateful, vindicated, cared for and loved.

The urge to laugh came when he thought what his Pa would say when he told him that he didn’t have to entertain any thoughts of jail. Because, if Bruce could get them expelled, get him a restraining order against Natalie? He must have taken care of these guys too.

He walked into the class with a little more confidence than he’d started the day with. And when he saw Bruce at the same exact seat, looking straight at him as he came in? Well, that made all the difference.

***  
Bruce fed him bits and pieces of the actual events, and the measures he’d taken the liberty of taking on Clark’s behalf.

He’d mentioned the school non-disclosure and Bruce got such a dark look on his face, he’d decided not to ask. The only other mention of it again, was Bruce’s “I’ve got this.”  
He was never asked to sign anything again, and his scholarship seemed to be in no danger of being rescinded.

No one looked at him differently, it seemed no one had a clue. Well more differently than before anyway. He guessed money and position made for a great silencer, even amongst high-schoolers.

It didn’t mean he didn’t get queasy passing by the school gyms or practice grounds. It didn’t mean that the mention of lockers for any reason, didn’t make him sweat or have the chills.

It didn’t mean that when Bruce laid a hand on his back one time, he hadn’t freaked the fuck out.

Bruce was taken aback, and Clark was equal parts apologetic and upset. Bruce just smiled and wiped the stray tear that hadn’t had the decency to keep up Clark’s strong façade.

“I was just, surprised.”

“Got it, no surprises.”

And he kept that promise.

Bruce’s touches were as transparent as his intentions, and God, Clark felt like an idiot now that the subtly was gone, and the veil of confusion had lifted. He couldn’t believe he’d never noticed exactly how much Bruce actually managed to touch him.

How much Bruce ogled him, and didn’t care if he were caught doing it. In fact, he spent an impossible amount of time in class perpetually flushed, because he finally noticed that even the computer Bruce chose to work on, gave him an excellent vantage point of Clark. And Clark’s assets.

Then there were the little things, like Bruce choosing to walk behind, and let him know he was safe, that there was no one at his back trying to hurt him. The time he pouted for a full day because Clark had pinned back his curly fringe and intercepted Bruce’s every attempt to remove the hairpin and tug on it.

The time Bruce pulled out some lip butter out of some secret pocket and insisted that he had to apply them to Clark’s lips.

“Why do you even have something like this on you?”

“Because I thought you’d need it, and you do. Stop biting your lips so enticingly all the time.”

There was little to say to that, that wouldn’t come off as a teasing, so he locked eyes with Bruce, and surrendered to the caresses, rubs, and tender treatment of his lips. His lips kept tingling the entire way home, and for a second there, he wished Bruce had decided to surprise him, by leaning a little forward, using his own lips to test the new silkiness of Clark’s.

In fact, other than the very little things? There was nothing. Which Clark understood. Somewhat. He’d thought being bold and making the first move would somehow catapult them into the next level. It hadn’t though.

It was clear that Bruce was being cautious with him, but in his mind, it was more than that. He felt lost. What if he could never get over the real, residing fear of being touched? In his heart he knew that Bruce would never hurt him, not physically. He knew Bruce wouldn’t force him, wouldn’t carry on with something if he knew it made him uncomfortable.

But how long would Bruce wait? How much time would Bruce give him, without growing tired of him? Or, did Bruce feel somehow repulsed by him? By what happened?

It was easy for these thoughts to evaporate when he was actually with Bruce, but at home, where he was cut off from any communication with him, where he couldn’t get any assurances that their feelings matched? They festered.

***  
He’d gone and done it. His parents were on an overnight trip to a fair somewhere, and he’d begged off going. He assured them he wouldn’t be alone, that Bruce would be over and that’s about as safe as safe was. 

When he’d told Bruce, he hoped he imagined the skeptical look Bruce shot him. Though a little pleading seemed to knock that expression right off.

Bruce arrived as his parents were leaving, doing the polite responsible thing and greeting them, reassuring them and assuring them that he’d keep Clark safe.

They were necking on the floor of his bedroom, side by side with nothing but the bed at their backs to cushion them. He knew it was now or never, and Clark found his fingers on Bruce’s collar, fiddling with his shirt, trying to unbutton the top. Bruce placed their foreheads together, voice exposing his own excitement, but unable to proceed without asking.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Please?”

Bruce kissed him again, and again, and again until all he could breathe was their joint warmth. He slid his lip across, leaving butterfly kisses all over Clark’s lips, paying attention to the corners, and sucking the bottom lip into his mouth, tongue coming out to tease the plumpness.

And it felt good, it felt right, even as tendrils of doubt crept into his mind. So he clung to Bruce, holding onto his shoulders, pulling him closer so that the space between them disappeared. Until his doubts would too.

They broke apart to get some air, Bruce’s fingers, tracing his jaw, asking without asking if he was okay. He turned his face into the warm palm and kissed it.

“Can I take you to bed now?” There was the smallest of creases next to Bruce’s eyes, which belied the fact he wasn’t rushing, and aiming to tease instead.

“Why don’t I lead the way?” He quirked an eyebrow answering the tease and Bruce merely laughed as they stood up, then sat on the bed.

They resumed kissing, and hands came into play. He never thought he’d be one of those people who got frustrated with buttons, but he was, and he was close to ripping them off Bruce’s shirt. Bruce’s chuckle rang in his ear, and hands cupped his, helping him open the shirt up. His t-shirt came off next, swift and easy. He ran his hands down Bruce’s chest, flicking a nipple and watching Bruce’s reaction. Bruce barely twitched. His own reaction when Bruce leaned in to lick at his nipples was surprising. He hadn’t known it could feel like that, and the chill as air was blown onto them made him want to rub them warmer, hide them.

Clink of Bruce’s belt, the buttons popping out, then his, until he needed to stand and shimmy out of them. He pulled a sitting up Brue down with him, reaching up to kiss him, to mess up his hair and touch the last layer of clothing between them.

He didn’t know how it happened, but one minute, Bruce’s hand had slid down the back of his briefs, cupping his flesh and kissing his face and the next his body seized, heart racing, chills down his spine, and the shaking started.

Bruce let go immediately, sensing something was wrong, even though he hadn’t said anything. It was hard to miss though. He tried to touch Clark’s hand and Clark lashed at him, hand slapping his away, unaware or semi-aware he wasn’t sure.

All he knew was that time seemed to pass in a flash of panic and half memories, and that he could hear something, but couldn’t make out the words.

He clung to that, to the voice he heard and its soft timber, until he realized it was Bruce, and that he was teaching him how to breathe through his panic.

Bruce was now sitting up, and the constant ‘ _breath in. That’s good, you’re doing good Clark. Hold, breath out. Yes, again. Breath in, now out,_ ’ slowly grew sharper in his mind, and his tightly shut eyes, opened up.

When he caught sight of the worry and relief on Bruce’s face. He broke down. Even as he cried, he hated himself for crying again in front of Bruce, for putting that look on Bruce’s face.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

“No it’s not! I can’t keep feeling like this! I don’t _want_ to. And I’m scared there’ll be a day when you get sick of constantly having to comfort and re-assure me. I Just want to be normal again Bruce.” He couldn’t remember when he’d pulled himself closer to Bruce, grabbing onto him. Could hardly understand what he was thinking. Rejecting Bruce, but then clinging to him so fiercely.

Bruce carefully flipped them so he was laying on top of Bruce instead, and pulled the covers over them. He reached a hand, showed it to Clark, before slowly moving it into Clark’s hair, and wiped his tears with the other one.

“Clark, that, is never going to happen. Making sure you’re safe and protected, it’s not something I do only for you, it’s something I do for myself. I don’t ever want to feel like let someone down, or like I caused someone harm because of my actions. The day you’re worried about will never come. I’m scared you’ll think being with me is causing you pain. I’m scared you’ll think this isn’t worth it, that there’s someone out there who better understands you, that our worlds are too different. That there is no way you can forgive me.”

“That’s ridiculous, you have to know that you’re not responsible for other people’s actions. I don’t blame you. I forgave you already, didn’t I? You can’t keep holding onto guilt like that. We can’t be together if that’s the reason why you’re holding onto us.”

“It’s not completely out of guilt. I think it’s instinctive. I want to take care of you. Even when I tell myself you’re capable of doing that yourself, I prefer to be doing it. If I’m allowed.”

“Oh. Guess I’ve known that about you already, ha?”

Bruce grinned, “what gave it away?”

He smiled down at Bruce, and something lifted, his heart felt calmer, more at peace. His expression turned serious when he asked Bruce, “can we try again?”

Bruce kissed his temple, fingers sliding down, playing and twisting around his loose fringe. “Only if you’re completely honest, and ask to stop when you need to.”

Clark nodded, then buried his face into the crook of Bruce’s neck, taking deep breaths, and letting the last of the shuddering pass. He was warm again, head tucked under Bruce’s chin, head on his chest, listening to the soothing sound of his heartbeat.

When he opened his eyes, it was dark outside, and Bruce’s eyes were closed. He closed his eyes again and fell into an easy dreamless sleep.  
***  
The sounds of someone shifting and moving woke him up. It wasn’t a sudden awakening, and he blinked to try and see what was going on.

Bruce turned towards him, brushed his hair out of his eyes and whispered, “go back to sleep.”

His voice was husky and sleep roughened when he asked, “what about you?”

“I’ll finish getting dressed and call Alfred.”

He extended a hand, caught Bruce’s wrist, “stay.”

Bruce’s expression wasn’t that readable in the dark, but Clark could tell he hesitated. “Please? Come back to bed. Stay with me.”

He watched Bruce take off his shirt again, his pants, neatly folding them on the only chair in the room, and then he was sliding under the covers with Clark.

“Is this okay?”

He wanted to cry, at the tenderness, at the understanding, at the careful way Bruce took care of him without making him feel like a complete loser, or a hopeless case.

“More than.”

They found each other with hands, fingers slotting against other, Bruce’s thumb running over them, soothing his worries. He snuggled closer, seeking Bruce’s broad chest, inhaling the scent that was uniquely his.

When he kissed Bruce’s throat, he felt the vibrations before he heard the hum of pleasure. They kissed, and they weren’t demanding ones but long, sigh filled languid kisses, slightly probing, gentle until they grew apart, and then less than, when they met again.

Heat suffused his body, reminding him of unfulfilled desires and the sharp edge of pleasure he’d lost. He shuffled, restless and in need, but respectful of his promise to Bruce to be honest.

His lips pressed kisses to Bruce’s chin, and he eased away, a little bashful that he’d need to spell it out, but determined to. “Bruce? I..can we? I’m ready this time.”

Bruce’s voice was still that soft, gruff murmur as he said, “yeah. God Clark I can smell you.”

He wondered if it was possible he misunderstood that. He swallowed and was just about to ask when Bruce brought his left arm up, crossing it over himself, until it rested on Bruce’s shoulder.

“Get your leg over mine. Let me feel you.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. They were both still in their briefs, tented and in his case, a little wet as his excitement mounted. He could still feel Bruce though, even through two layers of fabric, his heat radiated. And when they touched, he felt a zing go through him, cock ready to explode.

There were no hands this time, no accidental touches to his back, no fingers slipping under fabric, nothing to resemble their start and stop from earlier.

Bruce brought his leg up and Clark rubbed himself against it, riding the friction all the way, leg locked around Bruce’s. He kissed wherever he could reach, sucked bruises across Bruce’s neck, tops of his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone. His hand slipped, and instead of just holding onto Bruce, he dragged Bruce’s arm around his torso, hand on his and held it there, until Bruce’s fingers clung to him, making sure to grab on. The bed creaked with their now frantic movements, their gasps and moans filled the air between them. Nothing else existed save for the current moment, the warm body sliding against his and the wonderous sounds he was pulling from Bruce. Pleasure pooled into his belly, his cock restrained against his last scrap of resistance, the fabric of his briefs, until that thought too was gone in a hot burst, lights dancing behind closed eyelids. Opening his eyes again, breathing harshly, he looked to Bruce and matched the satisfied grin he found there.

“Did you come in your pants?”

He rolled his eyes, afterglow gone in a ridiculous instant. “You know I did.”

Bruce’s grin got wider, eyebrows lifting, “want to do it again?”

Bruce’s hand was still on his torso, legs between his, softened erections squished together. He was alright. He was better than alright. His heart was bursting, and it wasn’t as terrifying as it had grown in his mind to be. He wanted to test how far they could go.

“Honestly?”

Bruce brushed his fringe aside as he replied, “always.”

“No.”

Nothing changed in Bruce’s expression, no disappointment, no dramatic sighs to try and sway his mind. Instead, he smiled, brushed the stubborn fringe again and said, “thank you for telling me.”

“I don’t want to do that again, because I’d like us to go all the way instead.”

Bruce’s hand fingers stilled. He eyed him carefully, or as carefully as being in relative darkness would allow. “Are you sure?”

He hesitated, just the briefest of seconds, before saying, “we can stop right? If…if I need a moment?”

“We don’t have to do this if you feel the least bit uncertain. You have my word that I’ll stop if I even suspect you’re uncomfortable. You can take all the time you need.”

“Then I’m sure.”

Bruce stretched back for an instant, fumbling around looking for something. Light flooded the room as the small lamp on his nightstand was turned on. They both blinked at the brightness, having gotten used to the darkened room. 

“Guide my hand. Show me.”

Clark did, grabbing the hand around his torso, dragging it down his side, his hip, his leg, then back up again, breath held in just in case he began to panic or feel overwhelmed. He was grateful for the light as well.

He rested Bruce’s hand against the band of his underwear, and breathed out slowly. Bruce took that as a cue and started running his fingers across the band, back and forth, before dipping two fingers under the elastic, and repeating the motion.

“Pull mine off?”

He nodded, hands reaching to mimic Bruce’s, just a tad quicker. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t anticipating the reveal. His mouth went a little dry when he caught his first glimpse. Bruce was rather, endowed for a high-schooler. Not that he failed to meet the same standards, but wow. It glistened with the evidence of what they’d just done, and he wasn’t sure if he should be _that_ excited to see the mess they’d made together.

Admiring Bruce’s well-trained body, he failed to notice his own nakedness until his briefs caught midway down his thighs. He still hadn’t panicked, hadn’t felt the same griping anxiety of looming danger. He shifted his legs away until Bruce could pull the briefs all the way to his knees, where they slid much easily just by shaking them off, and down his legs.

“Going to touch you now.”

He knew Bruce meant well, but his directness was making Clark blush an alarming shade of pink. Still, he looked down to see Bruce’s deliberate moves, transparent and clear, and nodded along, not knowing if Bruce even saw him.

Fingers slid up and down his length, making use of his ejaculation to slip and rub. Though the drying sensation was starting to become unpleasant. He felt his cheeks get even warmer as he gave up and told Bruce in a strained voice, to check his bedside table.

He didn’t look, but he knew if he did, he’d find Bruce’s eyebrows raised, a smirk on his lips. The baby wipes they’d been using to keep him clean when they feared he’d catch an infection if he took a bath, hadn’t run out by the time he’d healed. Somehow, he’d known they’d come in handy, and viola. The lube in the same drawer though, didn’t need any explanations.

Bruce cleaned them both, tossing the tissues somewhere, before resuming his exploration of Clark’s length. He should have been sensitive, having just come, but the warm, slick palm had him tingling and hard in no time.

Bruce plucked one of his hands and he had to close his eyes when he bumped into Bruce’s hard length. “Come on Clark, you know what to do. Clearly.”

He wondered how much less embarrassing the entire encounter would be, if Bruce hadn’t needed to spell everything out for him. So he flicked Bruce’s forehead, getting revenge in his own way.

“Ow.”

“Lies.”

They both laughed. It made things all the more special.

Bruce then nuzzled his ear, and whispered, “need you on top now.”  
They shifted together, Bruce’s hands tracing over every limb, his legs, knees, tops of his thighs, middle of his chest, until they rested on his face. “Beautiful.”

He’d never felt bashful or shy, not until that moment, gazing down at Bruce’s eyes, seeing the way Bruce looked at him. His eyes shuttered closed and he shivered at the pleasure these touches pulled out of his body.

Knees either side of Bruce, he leaned forward, pulling the hand down to his heart, kissing Bruce, sharing these feelings in a chaste kiss that was merely the meeting of their lips, ever soft, ever so tender.

Fingers slipped between his legs, leaving tracks of fire as they went, and he welcomed them, pushing down onto Bruce, changing the tempo and passion of their kiss, letting him know he was ready for a bit more at least.

The lube left tracks on the inside of his thighs, and when it slipped farther in, he arched his back, surprised at the feeling.

“Alright? Want to take a break?”

He shook his head no, but Bruce wasn’t content, dropping the fingers he was using to slick up Clark’s entrance, and dragging Clark’s arm down.

“Feel my fingers there. Grab my hand if you need to stop.”

 _Sheesh_. “You don’t have to say everything you’re going to do, you know.”

Bruce grinned wickedly. His voice was soft as he murmured, “I like to though.” He punctuated his words with a slow back and forth rub that had Clark squeezing his arm in surprise.

“Stop?”

“N-no.”

His fingers circled around, teasing his nerve endings, occasionally bumping his sack, jostling his cock. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

The tip of Bruce’s finger went in, and Clark grunted, trying to get used to the sensation. The pressure steadily built, and once Bruce had fit his finger in, he slowly pulled out. In and out until there was less resistance, and Clark loosened his hold on Bruce’s arm.

He heard the snick of the bottle cap, Bruce pulling out to slick his fingers once more, and then two fingers breached him and his breath hitched. Before Bruce could ask, he quickly loosened his fingers on Bruce’s hand, and braced them against the bed, holding himself up.  
“Relax.”

Which was ridiculous as Bruce had chosen that moment to curl his fingers and sparks shot up Clark’s spine, making him tense his muscles all over.

“Fuck.”

“Breath.”

His voice came out garbled, as Bruce touched that bundle of sensitive tissue. His toes had curled, his breathing was erratic, anticipation and a tingle climbing from his legs towards his belly making him sway.

It wasn’t a completely comfortable feeling, but as he breathed and relaxed, it became less so. It was also easy to get lost in the sensation when he looked at Bruce and how much his reactions were affecting him.

“I didn’t see a condom inside your drawer, so I’m going to grab one from my wallet. That okay?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to respond, especially as Bruce’s fingers slid with a pop, and that same bashfulness returned full force. It did more to boost his self confidence than he expected, knowing Bruce was hopeful enough they’d make it to this stage, that he stashed a condom in his wallet.

Coming to a decision, he gingerly laid back against the pillow, exactly where Bruce had been. Waiting for Bruce to come back, getting a faint whiff of his scent from the sheets. He was much calmer than he’d expected to be.

Bruce stood next to the bed, gazing at him. “You sure?”

And now he was getting exasperated with the carefulness, wondering if he wasn’t showing Bruce the right signs, that he couldn’t trust that Clark was ready, so he slowly, teasingly splayed his legs apart. He also buried his face in the pillow to hide his complete embarrassment at how bold he was being.

The bed creaked as Bruce climbed on it, turning Clark’s face towards his and kissing him, reaching once more for the lube and asking in a voice roughened by desire if Clark could prep him now.

He wanted to linger, but didn’t, his own needs left unfulfilled, erection starting to flag. Bruce pumped him again, teasing his tip, and sliding his fingers lower to Clark’s entrance, adding warmed lube.

Clark heard more than saw the snap of the condom, the crinkle of the plastic as it was crumbled and thrown to the floor.

“If you feel the slighte-”

“God just fuck me already!”

“As I was saying. If you feel the slightest bit wrong, or triggered, let me know and it all stops.”

He groaned, fingers still pumping in and out of him, his cock leaking over Bruce’s fist. He lifted himself the slightest bit without having to completely leave the bed. “I promise.”

“Then let’s fuck.” He swore, leaning back against the pillows, hands twisted in sheets. Gosh he’d never known proper Bruce to just…God. Even the way it rolled off his tongue, not in anger, teasingly, Clark could feel his ears turning red, growing warm.

Bruce worked himself in slowly. His mouth trailing kisses down Clark’s chest, one hand on Clark’s thigh, thumb massaging in back and forth motions, the other holding him up so he wouldn’t crush Clark.

Clark couldn’t believe the sounds coming out of his mouth. His panting felt amplified in his ears, the stops and stutters of his breath, the gasps as Bruce moved and pulled back. He hissed at a sudden push and Bruce went still.

“I’m pul-”

“Don’t you _dare_. Just, give me a minute.”

He breathed in and out, held out a hand for Bruce to link with his, and relaxed as best he could. Bruce was even more careful, until finally, finally, Clark felt full to bursting.

Bruce’s legs were strained, and it took a moment to realize it wasn’t the strain of holding this position, but of holding back. He grabbed the lube and squirted a generous amount, coating where they were joined and that was all Clark could recall because the next moment, Bruce moved, and brushed the same spot that made him wild.

They rocked together, a little frenzied, a little hurried now that the teasing had passed, now that they’d finally connected.

This time the sounds weren’t only his, weren’t just Bruce, it was their bodies meeting and separating, the excess lube squelching obscenely. Clark moved his legs and caught them around Bruce’s waist, pulling him further in, close enough that the bump and grind and turned to fast, tight movements. Bruce rotating his hips, scrapping his walls and pumping his cock, hand no longer keeping him up, head down next to Clark’s, mouthing skin and kissing the top of his shoulder.

He sought out Bruce’s mouth, kissing and nipping and feeding him all his moans and groans, trading sounds and pouring passion.

He was close, body slick with sweat and shaking, ready to spill, Bruce concentrating on rubbing his insides to liquid, thumb teasing the tip of his soaked cock, over and over. He broke the kiss, arched his back and came.

Every muscle pulled taut. He crushed Bruce to him and floated. Bruce must have followed suit because, his jelly legs were eased down, Bruce’s breathing next to his was harsh and quick, gulping air like he’d run a marathon.

Bruce moved, settling on his side, but not before pulling out and drawing a groan from Clark, sticky hand wiped on his stomach. The clean side of it at least.

Clark pulled their foreheads together, calming down his racing heart, and soaking up the comfort that came with being with Bruce. He grinned, still out of breath as he posed the question this time, “want to do it again?”

Bruce snorted, “you minx. Give me few more minutes and I’ll take care of you.” He yawned though.

He laughed, sort of amused at the nickname. His smile didn’t fade as he rubbed their temples together, “thank you. Love you Mr. Wayne.”

“If I’d known getting in your pants would bring your politeness out, I wouldn’t have been so subtle when I asked you to tutor me. Love you too Mr. Kent.”

“Your idea of subtle really needs reevaluation. I’m serious though, if you propose I’m kicking you out of bed.”

“You’re just going to have to wait and see then, won’t you?”

Grinning, he knew what answer Bruce was expecting, “yeah.”

Bruce grinned back, moving his arm so it was slowly tracing, and then settling around Clark’s back, “yeah.”


End file.
